Love Me in Paris

by D Pichardo-Johansson

  But would she want to know?

  “Tell me something, Sophia. If you had the choice of holding onto a false hope or confirming a fact that opens your eyes to the truth but breaks that illusion… what would you choose?”

  She starts and her eyelashes flutter. “Wow. That’s a hard one.” She tucks a shoulder-length blond strand behind her ear while considering the question. “I think I’d rather not know and keep my illusion.”

  Well, that answers my question about calling my private detective.

  It also tells me there’s no point in clearing up my lie about taking the self-vow.

  If I’m leaving her in the dark now permanently, I feel obligated to at least give her some final help.

  At least that’s what I tell myself. The truth is that I’m starting to care about her cause. And she obviously needs some guidance organizing her trip. “And you say Saturday you’re going to the Alps?”

  Her face darkens with apprehension. “I’m supposed to head to some town called Ancey. That’s the place my mother mentioned in her last letter and postcard. But my only contact there hasn’t answered any of my messages. All I have is a name, Dominique Bisset, and a twenty-year-old phone number. For all I know, that person might no longer live there… or even be alive. I was planning to just head that way, try to find some of the places they visited and pray that their friend still works at the same place she worked back then.”

  Oh shit. She really doesn’t have a plan. “Okay.” I sigh in resignation. “We can go over those letters too. I’ll help you research the town and make a schedule for your visit.”

  She gives me the most beautiful smile that dimples her cheeks and crinkles the freckles on her nose. God, she’s cute. Surprising me, she leans over and swings her arms around my neck in a hug. “Thank you!”

  The brief touch heightens the painful awareness of my sex deprivation. The softness of her face against the side of my neck, the casual brushing of her breasts against my chest, her delicate fingers digging on my upper back… Doesn’t she know the temptation she is?

  Or is she worldlier than I give her credit for, and playing me like a puppet?

  Chapter 8

  Sophia

  I screwed up big time.

  “How was I supposed to know that there are so many towns in France with such similar names?” I cover my eyes with both hands as Trevor and I sit at my hotel restaurant. We spent the evening going over my “archeological files,” as he calls them. “Seriously. Anisy, Annecy, Ancey-Cote D’Or?”

  Trevor lowers the menu to pat my hand. “Don’t feel bad; it was an honest mistake.”

  “But how could I’ve missed that line on the postcard? The town they visited was settled near a lake. Ancey doesn’t have a lake—or mountains!” I palm my own forehead.

  Since my mother’s final letters got spoiled in the flood, I’ve been filling in the blanks from memory and, apparently, I had the wrong town altogether. As it turns out Côte d’Or is a completely different region than Alpes Côte d’Azur—and the town I’m seeking is in neither province; it’s in Rhône Alpes. And my little piece of information that my parents visited a château during their trip means nothing. Every single town around here seems to have one as their claim to fame.

  “Stop beating yourself up,” Trevor insists. “You teach history, not geography.”

  It took super-efficient Trevor all of two minutes to put clues together and determine that the city I’m looking for is not Ancey but Annecy, some medieval town near a namesake lake, which people have nicknamed, “The Venice of France.” I was forced to cancel the hotel reservation I made for the wrong town, and now I’m all stressed out trying to find a last-minute reservation in Annecy. I haven’t found any availability for the next week which means I’ll have to postpone my trip and my hotel stay here is expiring.

  I haven’t had any luck online finding another affordable hotel in Paris, so the concierge here at the Hilton is trying to work some magic to extend my stay, but she can’t promise anything. Shoot. Me and my lack of practical brains.

  “Let’s just eat,” Trevor tries to distract my wrecked nerves as we wait to hear back from the concierge. “Normally, I would lecture you about settling for hotel food, but I’m too famished to venture the streets looking for a better place.”

  He’s not joking. He orders two unpronounceable courses and devours them both. After he cleans up his plates, he attacks my barely touched fish leftovers. I’m okay with that. I admit I haven’t been impressed with French cuisine—too greasy for my taste. The best meal I’ve had in town by far is the dinner he cooked that night at his place.

  He lifts his shirt to search for his credit card, revealing a money belt that’s a sharp contrast to his high-end clothes; it’s faded with age, stained, and a little threadbare.

  “I’m still trying to figure out your story,” I mutter.

  He eyes me with curiosity. “What do you mean?”

  “You pack your lunch to avoid restaurants and save money, yet when we finally sit to eat you order two of the priciest dishes on the menu. You dress in obviously expensive clothes, but your money belt is falling apart.”

  He gives me a blank stare. “So? I allow myself to splurge from time to time, but have to keep a close eye on my budget this year.”

  “This year?” I ask.

  “I’m on a sabbatical from work.” At my quizzical stare, he adds, “I’m a lawyer in New York City.”

  The revelation takes me by surprise. “I’d assumed you and your friends were trust fund babies traveling the world.” I bite my lower lip at my lack of tact. “Sorry. That sounded kind of insulting.”

  He shrugs. “I can’t pretend I’m offended by that. Karla and Eric are trust fund babies. The flat belongs to her father, a hedge fund manager and family friend. I guess I could’ve been an aimless trust fund baby if I’d chosen to—my brother is. But fortunately or unfortunately, I’m the responsible one in the clan.”

  Huh. No wonder he came across as high-functioning when he helped me organize my trip; he probably is.

  But the information is meaningful in a different way. Until now I’d assumed he lived here permanently; the possibility of seeing him again when he returns to the US feels strangely exciting.

  Of course, my excitement makes no sense. It’s not like we’d be running into each other, when he lives in New York and I live in Indiana.

  “You’re looking at me like I’ve grown a horn,” he comments.

  “Sorry.” I blink while adjusting my ponytail. “New Yorkers don’t strike me as people who know how to relax and take sabbaticals. And the few attorneys I met before were antagonistic and had this… bad mojo around them. I would’ve never guessed you’re a lawyer.”

  A small curve bends his lips. “I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or an insult, but I’ll answer, thanks.” He takes the last bite of my leftover fish, then cleans his mouth with the fabric napkin. “My father’s firm specializes in ‘bad mojo.’ It’s technically a lawsuit and personal injury firm, but it’s infamous in New York for being the firm you hire when you want to destroy someone’s life.”

  I’m not sure what that means, but I’m scared of asking. “What inspired you to take the sabbatical?”

  For a moment, he appears tense. “Something bad happened at work that made me wonder if I wanted to make a living demoralizing people all my life.” He swirls his wineglass, studying the garnet liquid. “After more than a decade without taking vacation, I decided to be irresponsible for once in my life, to splurge my emergency savings and take a year to figure out what I really want to do.”

  I wonder what he means by “something bad.” It must’ve been serious to make him consider quitting law. “How is it going? I mean, the part about finding a new calling?”

  He puffs. “I have less than three months left on my extended-stay visa and I still don’t have any answers. Some days I consider applying for a work permit so I can stay here longer. Some other days, I consider starting f
rom zero somewhere completely new. Maybe New Zealand?”

  I’m trying to understand my disappointment. “Why New Zealand?”

  “My mother lives there now, with her current husband.”

  Darn it. New Zealand? And I thought New York sounded too far away from home.

  “But I don’t know,” he continues. “I’m still waiting for an epiphany to strike.”

  I consider it for a moment. “I read somewhere that when you’re trying to find a new career, you need to start by finding out what your passion is.”

  He gives a sour chuckle. “And that might be my problem. I don’t seem to be excited about anything anymore.”

  That must suck. I’m starting to feel sorry for this guy. “Well, you’re in the right place. If there’s someplace in the world where passion hides, it must be here in Paris. Oh, wait. Did you mention before that France was only one of your stops?”

  He nods. “I made Paris my base camp because staying at Karla’s flat is cheap, and the only rent I pay is contributing to groceries. But I’ve taken short trips to London and divided the fall between the South of France, Southern Italy, and Southern Spain. I returned here in the winter when I realized if I continued to go at that rate I’d blow my budget.”

  I bob my head, fascinated and jealous. “Any reason why you chose Europe for your sabbatical?”

  “Europe was the last place where I remembered feeling alive and joyful.” A hint of something I’ve never seen before flashes in his eyes and I try to interpret it. Is it joy? Nostalgia?

  I don’t want to pry, but either he’s too tired to keep the walls up or it’s my lucky day. Whatever the case, he volunteers more information. “The happiest memories of my life are coming to Europe. Once with my parents when I was just a kid, right before their divorce, and then alone for a full summer at age eighteen, as my graduation present from high school.”

  “Eighteen? That’s young! How did you manage?”

  “I loved it! It was my first experience traveling independently and surviving on a budget. I figured out the Eurostar train system for some trips and backpacked and hitchhiked my way around for others. I stayed in hostels to save money and took advantage of the younger drinking age here to have my first taste of partying.” He chuckles. “For any young man that would’ve been a blast. But for me it was even more significant, since I’d always been on the quiet, compliant side.”

  He takes a sip of wine and plays with the fish bones left on my plate. “I promised myself I’d travel every year, but then got caught up in college, and law school, and work, and never did. This coming summer will be twenty years since my last trip.”

  I gasp when I realize the coincidence. “That wasn’t too long after my parents’ plane crash.”

  I process the information and then a revelation hits me. “Wait a minute. That’s why your money belt is so old. You’re still carrying the same one you brought on that last trip?”

  He concedes with a reluctant bow of the head.

  I clasp my hands at the revelation. “Hey! You’re looking for your past, too! Just like me, you’re hoping to reconnect with the real you, before the world shaped you into something you dislike.”

  His hand stiffens on the wineglass. “Damn it, when you say it like that…” He sets down the glass. “Great, you just proved I’m not that different from you; stuck in my own archeological exploration.” He gives me a sour, crooked smile. “You win this one.”

  I should tease him and gloat about my victory, but instead I feel the urge to reciprocate his openness. “No, I don’t win anything. I confess my trip is not only about my past; it’s mostly about my future.”

  He leans forward, asking the question with his eyes.

  “You see, last year I broke up with someone.” It’s still difficult to say the words. “We were engaged. We’d set a wedding date for this June.”

  His eyebrows shoot up, but he says nothing.

  An accordion-wielding busker hums somewhere in the distance as I continue. “When my friend Iris was diagnosed barely months after my aunt died, it hit me hard. Iris has been my friend since before I lost my parents. The idea of losing her too brought back all those memories.”

  I fiddle with my napkin spread over my jeans. “And the most vivid memories I got were about the way my father looked at my mother—his eyes shinning with adoration toward her. I knew George and I didn’t look at each other that way. I realized I was selling myself short, for a love of much less quality than I knew was possible.”

  Trevor has turned into a statue, eating up my every word. At last, he stirs. “Are you sure that was the right decision? I mean, how can you measure your own relationship against a standard you witnessed so long ago? What if your memories have been airbrushed and idealized?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well…” He hesitates. “You know, there’s no such thing as perfect people. So by definition couples are imperfect and relationships are never ideal.”

  His tension and caution show he’s measuring his words. I suspect what he really wants to say is that if my parents were still alive, by now they might’ve split up already, like his parents.

  But for someone as insecure as I tend to be, the clear memory of the love in my parents’ eyes when they looked at each other is unshakable. I give a small shrug and an even smaller smile. “I could answer with the cliché that ‘perfect couples are made by imperfect people who are perfect for each other.’ But instead I’ll say, I don’t expect to find someone who will blow my mind in every way. All I want is what my parents found in each other: a favorite travel companion through life.”

  “A travel companion,” he repeats as if talking to himself, and something tells me he’s used to traveling alone.

  I play with the orange and green woven bracelet on my wrist. “George has been very understanding about my need to ‘find myself.’ But he still thinks that after this trip I’ll recover my sanity and take him back.”

  “Ugh!” Trevor gives a mirthless chuckle. “That’s exactly my father’s attitude.”

  I scrunch up my face. “A part of me agrees with him that I just went delusional and recklessly threw away a great relationship. And that I’ll get back to reality after I finish this trip. But a part of me suspects I can’t go back now.” I sip my water and then conclude, “I’m not just looking for memories. I’m looking for a sign about the next big step in my life.”

  A transformation is occurring in Trevor’s countenance. “God, our journeys are more alike than different. What you just said is exactly the way I feel about returning to the firm. I’m trying to reconnect with the more joyful person I was in the past, while looking for clues about my next step.”

  His words jar loose the memory of what Chloe said the other day. On impulse I take his hand, and he seems startled at my touch. “Maybe the reason why our paths crossed is because we have messages for each other. Maybe, in the same way you’ve guided me in my journey, I can guide you in yours—help you find those clues.”

  I’m about to suggest we reunite after I return from the Alps when the hotel concierge approaches our table. From her apologetic expression I gather she brings bad news even before she speaks. “I’m so sorry, Miss Paige. We’ve been unable to find you accommodations on such short notice. We’re going to need you to check out Saturday by noon, as planned.”

  Crestfallen, I nod. “I understand. Thank you.”

  With a sympathetic smile, she excuses herself and takes off.

  A void settles in my stomach, but before I can panic, Trevor turns his hand around and clasps mine. “It’s okay. You can stay at the flat for the next few days. It won’t be the first time a friend crashed with us.”

  I feel like kissing him out of sheer relief, but I hold myself back. “Thank you so much, Trevor! I hope Eric and Karla don’t mind.”

  He’s not done. He seems reluctant, but determined at once. Like he’s about to say something he dreads, but has resigned himself to. “And I’m also going to
help you on the second part of your trip as you search for signs.” He stops, and his conviction seems to grow. “I’m going with you to Annecy.”

  Chapter 9

  Trevor

  It’s a fact. Sophia needn’t worry about me seducing her while she crashes here at the flat. I won’t have the energy for sex—ever again in my life.

  That’s how exhausted I am at the end of day five.

  Earlier, after we moved Sophia’s luggage from the hotel to the flat, we started the route described in the third letter, heading to Notre Dame. We circled the famous cathedral—closed to the public since the horrific fire it endured—and admired its two iconic towers, which still stand beautiful and relatively untouched compared to the rest of the building. (27)

  There has to be a metaphor there somewhere. The blackened church warns me that you better not get attached to anything, because even what you thought unshakable in your life can be taken away any minute. In a weird way, it reminds me of my boyhood as a child of divorce.

  We then head to the less famous Sainte Chapelle. I’ve always found this smaller church more impressive, with its profusion of stained-glass windows (28). Then we jump to the nearby Hotel de Ville and then keep zigzagging south, exploring the landmarks on our list. The Boulevard Saint Michelle. The Luxemburg gardens. The Pantheon (29-31). My legs are pulverized. When I finally crash on the couch, I sleep deeper than I’ve slept in ages and don’t even remember there’s an appetizing blonde in my bedroom. Yep. Sophia’s virtue is safe with me.

  But the truth is that I no longer dread being her platonic guide and translator. I still don’t know exactly what Sophia is searching for—maybe a message from her parents from the underworld? But whatever that is, helping her find it has become my mission, the first cause I’ve been passionate about in years.

  And I have to admit the day wasn’t bad at all. Even the places I’ve seen a dozen times shine in a new light when I see them through Sophia’s eyes, as she always finds a detail I’ve missed. She’s great at researching the history of each place and then teaching me something new. Even better, she signs up for every imaginable audio-guide—the kind with too much information for my taste—then gives me the two-minute summary of the best parts. Max will never again be able to say that I’m culturally unenlightened. The refresher course on Doric, Ionic, and Corinthian columns she gives me at the Pantheon is so good it makes me envy those kids who will be studying with her this summer (32).