So, for our last day in Paris, we plan to start by touring the Paris Opera House and end with a grand night cruise on the Seine, as a farewell to the City of Lights.
The Opera-Palace Garnier, also known as the National Academy of Music, proves an exaggerated explosion of beauty on top of beauty. The gorgeous building has always drawn me with its golden roof, topped by bright gold statues of winged beings. And what a façade, loaded with balconies, sculptures, and reliefs. Since our visit to the Pantheon, where Sophia gave me that refresher course on classical architecture, I have more language to describe the Ionic-Corinthian inspired neoclassical columns decorating it. Take that for culture, Maxwell! (46)
But as much as I’ve admired the building during my stay in Paris, this is the first time I enter it. And if someone could have a seizure from an overdose of lavishness, I would have one on the spot. (47a, 47b).
Even Sophia is overwhelmed by the time we stumble out of the place. “This is too much! Seriously! The building itself would’ve been enough to make the place grand. The gorgeous multicolor marble in the columns and the floors crowned it. Did they really have to add the carvings and paintings on the super-high ceilings? The gold trim everywhere? The impressive staircases? The amazing chandeliers?” Faking a sob, she whimpers. “How am I supposed to return to my box-shaped townhouse and my Ikea furniture?”
“I know. My brain can’t handle one more beautiful sight today.”
She gasps. “You’re kidding, aren’t you? The Madeleine church is quite close to here. We have to go see it.”
“First, I need a coffee break,” I announce with a groan.
Our GPS apps tell us we’re quite close to a busy restaurant area spread around the Italian Boulevard. We pick a random place and order cappuccinos. Sophia gives in and also orders a chocolate mousse.
I reach for my money belt, planning to pay the bill, and cuss, realizing there’s a hole in it where the seam is coming apart. I take it off and examine it. The torn area is small and, luckily, I don’t seem to have dropped anything from it. But the thread is unraveling, and it’s a matter of time before the tear expands and it becomes useless.
“I guess it’s time to buy a new money belt.” I’m surprised how disappointing the idea is. It’s ridiculous to be attached to something that old.
“Let me take a look.” Sophia studies my empty money belt and then gets something out of hers. It’s one of those hotel sewing kits containing safety pins, buttons, and a few needles pre-threaded with strands of different colors.
“Don’t bother, Sophia. This pathetic pouch is ancient and needs to be tossed anyway.”
“Are you kidding?” She selects the navy-colored thread, the one matching the belt best. “This so-called pathetic pouch is a priceless symbol. It represents your youth and idealism. There’s no way I’m letting you throw it away without a fight.”
As Sophia deftly repairs the broken seam from the inside, warm relief expands my chest. I wasn’t ready to say goodbye to the ‘pathetic pouch’ yet.
Fondness blossoms inside me, this is so Sophia. She appears to be a careless traveler, unable to make clear plans or grasp the big picture. Yet she’s the expert in the details. She’s the one who always has Tylenol with her when my feet are hurting at the end of our long walks, the one who pulls out hand-sanitizing wipes before we sit to eat our packed lunch. She’s the one who finds the tiny feature in a stained-glass window that makes the long trip through a gigantic church worth it. We make such a good team. I’m going to miss her when she returns to the US.
And, of course, there’s no way we’ll see each other again. I’m not sure I want to return to the States. Even if I did, I’d have no reason to visit “The Middle of Nowhere, Indiana.”
Right?
“Remind me, Sophia,” I ask, trying not to stare at her as she sews, “where do you live, again?”
“Hammond, Indiana.”
That tells me nothing. “What’s the closest big city?”
“Well, I commute to Gary, Indiana, for work.”
“Be serious,” I snort. “I said big city.”
She playfully shoves my shoulder away and her touch electrifies my sex-deprived body. She seems to feel the zing too, as she blushes lightly and lowers her eyes.
“Gary is only about thirty miles away from Chicago.” Her attention returns to the money belt. “Is that a large enough city for you?”
I scoff, deliberately teasing her. Bantering seems like the only substitute available for what I wish I was doing to her instead. “Not compared to New York. Chicago is nothing but a New York City wannabe.”
She rolls her eyes, suppressing a smile, and fakes offense. “You New Yorkers think the only real city in the world is yours. I wouldn’t live in that smoggy, crowded place if you paid me in gold.”
Well, I guess that settles it. Not a chance of us being neighbors anytime soon.
I busy myself reviewing some photos on my cell phone. Isn’t it ridiculous that I’m disappointed I won’t be seeing her again after this trip? I guess a part of me is curious to see the end of her tale. Will she confirm her decision not to marry the ex-fiancé after reconnecting with her parents’ so-called epic love story? As much as I’ve doubted it, maybe a part of me wants her to convince me that their enduring love was real and not a product of her imagination.
She’s done with her sewing job and joins me, looking at the photos over my shoulder. After some oohs and ahs about the beauty we’ve seen today at the Opera Place, she comments, “You have a weak spot for architecture, don’t you?”
She might as well have asked me why my hair is neon green. “What do you mean?” I ask, confused.
“You joke that you’re uncultured, unable to appreciate painting and sculpture. Yet you constantly take pictures of details on the façades of buildings. You love photographing columns, and you grasped my clumsy explanation about classical and neoclassical styles so quickly.”
I check the photos I’ve taken in the past few days. She’s right; most of them are pictures of buildings and architectural details. I hadn’t even noticed I was doing that.
“Look!” She laughs, pointing at my screen. “You were more interested in the scaffolding around the Modern Art Museum than you were in anything inside it. And you have eight pictures in a row of the construction machines at some jobsite on the street. Did you like construction when you were a kid?”
I think back to my childhood. “Actually, yes. When I was little, I used to say I was going to be a builder.” I’d completely forgotten. A bittersweet, warm feeling settles in my heart. “My favorite toys were my Lego blocks. I spent hours building towers and skyscrapers with them.”
Sophia nods with a smile. “Well, we said once that the first step in launching a new career is finding something you’re passionate about. I’d say remembering something you were passionate about when you were a kid counts. Maybe there’s something here for you as you think about your career decisions.”
I process her words. Do they make any sense? They do. Imagining myself working on something related to architecture and construction fills me with enthusiasm. “But what? I’m too old to go back to school and become an architect or an engineer.”
She gives a small shrug. “It’s a place to start. And it’s never too late to pursue your dreams.”
The waiter approaches the table with the card reader machine and I realize Sophia’s been distracting me so she can pay for our coffees and dessert. Under the waiter’s inpatient gaze, we engage in our usual tug-of-war for the bill, arguing about whose turn it is to cover it. Sophia cheats and wins the war by tickling me, so I let go of the check tray, laughing.
As she pays, I dwell on our last conversation. Who would have thought that walking in company instead of alone came with so many little bonuses. This woman, watching me from a distance, is noticing details about me I would’ve never learned by myself. It makes me wonder how great life would be if I always had a travel companion like that by my side.
Sophia
We make it to the Madeleine church, a gorgeous neoclassical building which imitates a Greco-Roman temple (48). I’m proud of my teaching abilities when Trevor refers to the oculus—the opening at the tip of the inner dome which allows for some light—by name (49). Also, when he points out the acanthus leaves on the Corinthian capitals. I’m impressed by how fast he learned the different types of Roman inspired columns. He thanks my teaching, but I credit it to his fascination for architecture he claims not to have noticed until now.
This church has chairs instead of pews. We sit in one of the front rows, facing the main altar, and take in the huge nave and incredibly high ceilings. (49).
“Have you ever been in the real Pantheon in Rome?” He shifts to get more comfortable, and his elbow brushes against my side.
I stiffen involuntarily. “No. I wish.” Why did my voice have to squeak? He must think I’m totally unsophisticated.
“This place reminds me of it,” he continues as if nothing happened, but his eyes probe mine, as if searching for something. I wonder breathlessly what he’s looking for, what he sees. “Except, of course, this is a nineteenth-century replica, and the one in Rome is the real deal.”
“Did you know that the Roman Pantheon survived because it was made into a church?” Spitting out historical facts and trivia helps distract me from the sexual tension between us. I wave my hand around. “This place has been back and forth. The original Madeleine church was demolished in the late seventeen hundreds. Napoleon then planned this building as a military monument, and later on, its purpose was changed back to be a church. It’s inspirational. It’s a reminder of how we can reinvent ourselves throughout our lives.”
For a moment, he remains silent, tapping his fingers on the back of the chair in front. Trevor has the most gorgeous hands I’ve ever seen. They make me think of the hands of an artist. “Maybe that’s what I have to do with my career, repurpose it as something new instead of getting rid of it altogether.” I understand the topic of self-reinvention is active in his mind. “But do you know what I like the most about this church? That it’s dedicated to Saint Mary Magdalene. I love her story because she’s the ultimate woman of dubious reputation who then gets away with becoming a saint.” He reclines back and drops his hands into his lap. “It must feel really good to be forgiven in an instant, to be cut so much slack.”
I study his melancholic expression. “It sounds like you never experienced that.”
“Nope. I always tried to do everything right on the first try.” He frowns in concentration, as if considering it for the first time. His gaze is lost tracing the high arches between columns. “Maybe that’s the real reason why I’m here in Europe, irresponsibly throwing away my savings, and leaving my father to run the firm one man short. I wanted a turn at screwing up.”
I don’t expect him to volunteer anything more, but to make sure he knows I’m listening, I comment, “A part of you looks forward to knowing you’ll be loved and forgiven when returning home? Like the prodigal son story?”
“It would be a nice change. My brother has always been the prodigal son who keeps throwing away his inheritance on wild ventures. I’m like the other brother in the story who face-palms, unable to believe that guy is getting away with it while he’s killed himself working for years without a thank you.”
I am moved by his openness. My fingers twitch with an irresistible urge to grab his. His hand is right there, idly resting on his toned thigh. I love the way his long fingers curve, but his hands are more than just beautiful. They’re incredibly soft and skilled, as I could confirm the day we kissed.
I begin to imagine all the things those fingers can do to me. Heat floods my entire body and I struggle to remember what we’re talking about. “And you, uh, you don’t think you’ll be received with open arms when you return?”
He snorts. “My father doesn’t believe in forgiving people. You should hear how he still talks about my mother twenty-five years after their divorce.” He chuckles sourly and shakes his head. “But it’s okay. I don’t need his approval anymore. I’m no longer that kid desperate to please his unreachable dad.”
Imagining him as that child, my heart melts. Giving up on the precautions, I stretch my hand and rest it on his shoulder. But the firm muscles underneath his jacket feel so enticing I regret it almost instantly. Darn it, I have to get a grip on my hormones.
“Well, FYI,” I mutter, forcing myself to focus on giving support to a friend. “I don’t think you’re screwing up. You’re pressing the pause button and reflecting on your next step. I celebrate and applaud your decision for this sabbatical.”
His eyes are full of gratitude when he turns to look at me. “So, you don’t think I’m a spoiled rich kid just slacking off?”
“Of course not!” Even the casual touch is heating me up, so I promptly remove my hand. “I’m glad you made this decision to rethink your life on your own and not pushed by a tragedy. You know, my friend Iris had to take a year off from work to tend to her chemotherapy and her recovery from surgery. That hasn’t been fun.”
Something that looks like desolation fills his countenance. “I guess you’re right. Getting a life-threatening diagnosis has to be worse than any of my small drama.”
I sense sorrow rising inside him. I should listen to my instincts and shut up, but instead, still mind-fogged by his touch, I keep talking. “Can you imagine what it’s like to have someone your age diagnosed with a life-threatening condition right next to you? It makes you realize, ‘That could’ve been me!’ and opens your eyes to the brevity of life. I compare it to the way a soldier might feel when a fellow army man is shot next to him.”
Too late, I see it. It’s a flash of anguish in Trevor’s eyes. His hands tremble subtly, and the rhythm of his breathing disrupts. “I’m getting a headache. If you don’t mind, I’ll go rest for a while. You can manage the Metro alone now, can’t you?”
Without explanation, he bolts from his chair and dashes out of the church, leaving me alone.
* * *
We should be leaving for our night cruise on the Seine soon, but Trevor is still locked in Eric and Karla’s room, sleeping. I pace around the living room, debating whether to wake him or leave him and go alone, which I confess scares me because it’s getting dark and I’m still disoriented around the city. I was counting on him guiding me to the boat dock near the Pont Neuf.
I still don’t know what I said in the Madeleine Church to upset Trevor so much. We were talking about self-reinvention and about Iris. Before that we were talking about his career change. Did he feel I minimized his reasons to take his sabbatical? I remember he said his motive had been that “something bad happened at work,” but he never said what.
I break my commitment to respect his privacy and grab my cell to Google him. Darn it. I don’t know his last name. As I ease into the sofa, I type on my phone, “Trevor Lawyer New York, NY” and the search returns a gazillion names. I’m pretty sure I’ve glimpsed his last name on his credit card when we’ve played the tug-of-war with café and restaurant bills. If I can just see it, it will come back to me.
As I scan the Google results, a New York Times post from a year back with the word Trevor highlighted catches my attention.
Trevor Lawson. That’s it! I click on the newspaper article and start reading.
Chapter 16
Trevor
I took my migraine medication and an emergency Xanax and dozed on and off all afternoon. It’s been so long since I last had to resort to it that I thought I was cured. But Sophia’s unfortunate word choice triggered bad memories, and my splitting headache followed shortly. Just like it always does.
My phone lights up with a message from her. Are you awake? Can I come in?
To me this may be routine, but the poor girl must be worried, not understanding why I withdrew all afternoon. I text back, I’m coming out.
I crawl out of bed and catch a glance of myself in the dre
sser mirror. It’s not a pretty sight. My messy hair makes me look like a damn hedgehog—I so need a haircut. But it gets worse, puffy eyes, wrinkled clothes, and I could swear my five-o’clock shadow looks more like a three-month-long beard.
I reach for a breath mint and venture out of my sanctuary. Before the door even latches behind me, a soft, feminine form hurls herself into my arms. Sophia’s face presses into my shoulder as she trembles against my weary body.
Her shaky voice announces she’s about to cry. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t know!”
I tense with dreadful suspicion I know what she’s referring to. I want to remain defensive, but her arms shift around me and her slender fingers knead my aching back muscles in gentle circles. Her face lifts to press kisses against my cheeks. God, she’s kissing me. Her touch is bringing me back to the land of the living, while threatening my sanity.
“Sophia,” I manage to whisper as I battle to hang onto my defenses. “What did you find out?”
She slowly pulls back and her fingers slip down my arm to grasp my hand. She guides me to the couch while eyeing me cautiously. “I found this news article. It talks about a shooting in a law office in Manhattan.”
Damn it. She really does know.
Despite the Xanax, memories threaten to break through. The screams around me. The sound of glass shattering. The bodies on the floor… The images mix with the voices of the news reporters. “Five victims in Manhattan law office shooting.” “Trevor Lawson… Survivor.”
Sophia opens her mouth, then stops, as if debating, but apparently decides to go for it. “That Trevor Lawson is you, isn’t it?”
There’s no point in hiding it now, so I nod.
She hugs me once more. Apparently, no one ever taught her that the best way to handle survivors of a traumatic event starts with never mentioning it.
“I’m so sorry if my comment brought back memories,” she says. “Do you want to talk about it?”
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