“Of course!” I zip my new rolling suitcase, which Trevor measured in Paris from every side to make sure it fit the airline requirements. “If there’s something Trevor drilled into me a hundred times is that you never take a reservation for granted. You should always double-check everything.”
Which reminds me of something. Of all the steps I’ve needed to tend to, the most important was verifying that Trevor is still at the flat and hasn’t gone somewhere else.
After saying goodbye to the girls, I check my email on my phone, still holding the American SIM card, but ready to receive the French one tomorrow. Trevor hasn’t answered my calls, but in another display of my new proactive spirit, yesterday I called the café-boulangerie where he got our breakfast everyday. I managed to find an English-speaking employee who would agree to give him a message from me this morning.
I find the email from the café employee in battered English. “I am sorry. He never show up.”
A bad premonition invades me. Trevor never, not even for one day, misses his coffee from that café.
I grab my phone and search back for old calls. When we returned from Annecy, Trevor used my phone to call Karla’s cell, and the number must still be registered there somewhere.
I find the number with the Paris mobile area code and cross my fingers that I have the right one. It’s six p.m. here, making it midnight there, but if I remember right, Karla and Erik were night owls.
My mobile calling plan doesn’t include international calls, but there’s not one eventuality Trevor’s training didn’t prepare me for. I recharge my Skype app with five dollars of credit and use it to dial that number.
A few rings later, a sleepy voice answers. Shoot, maybe they were asleep after all.
Oh wait. The time difference with Chicago is seven hours, not six.
“Hello?”
“Karla, it’s Sophia, Trevor’s… friend. I’m so sorry to bother you. Are you still in London or back in Paris?”
“We’re back in the flat.” Shuffling sounds and yawning hint that she’s stretching in bed.
My heart fills with hope and anticipation. “Can I talk to Trevor?”
Another yawn delays the reply, leaving me hanging for a few painful seconds, but at last the answer arrives. “He’s not with us anymore. He went back to the States last week.”
The shock is so strong I almost drop the phone. After mumbling an apology and a goodbye, I disconnect the call and ease back onto the floral sofa where my luggage sits.
Having heard the words on speakerphone, Chloe sits next to me and holds my hand. But no words leave her mouth. It’s going to be difficult to cheer me up this time.
“He’s back here,” I finally mumble. “He’s been back in the US since last week and hasn’t made any effort to track me down.” I swallow as the terrifying realization hits me. “He’s given up on me.”
Chapter 35
Trevor
I used to torture Maxwell so much about how Chicago couldn’t hold a candle to New York as a city, that Chicago was “New York’s ugly stepsister.” I never would’ve imagined I’d be here for a job interview.
Last night I took a detour in my rental car to peek at Gary, Indiana. For my life I can’t remember the name of the city where Sophia lives, so I had to settle with exploring the one where she works. Gary reminded me of Detroit: A depressed rust-belt city filled with ruined, abandoned buildings and churches that must’ve been grand once. It almost made me change my mind about this plan. But the good chemistry I’ve had with the staff and executives at Foreman Construction Law gives me hope that I’m on the right track.
The company’s founder, Mr. Foreman himself, is my last interviewer of the day. Robust, gray-haired, and impeccably suited, he could be about Dad’s age, but it’s hard to guess. “Tell me, why do you want to work for us?” he asks.
“I’ve recently figured out that I wanted to be an architect in childhood,” I explain. “For a while I considered dropping law, but a… good friend made me see that we don’t always have to demolish the old to build again. I could find something old instead, repair it, and repurpose it into something new.” That’s what I’m trying to do right now with my law career. I don’t want to work suing people anymore, but I’m pretty sure that my law degree can be applied to construction law.
My interviewer’s face lights up. “That’s exactly what our clients are about. We take pride in working with the biggest construction companies in the Chicago Metro area that specialize in rescuing old buildings while preserving their original architecture.”
I nod. “This is a cause I can see myself embracing. Yes, I’ll need some training. And yes, it will take me a few months to be able to start, because I have to take the Illinois bar. But I’m committed.”
Foreman shuffles some papers on his desk—apparently my CV—and clicks his pen repeatedly. A little nervous about his delay in replying, I tug on my striped tie and straighten the lapels of my gray business jacket.
At last, he puts down the pen and speaks. “This is the part when I’m supposed to play it cool and tell you we’ll be in touch.” His mouth twitches and then slowly stretches into a grin. “But my starry eyes while browsing your CV must’ve hinted that the job is yours.”
A surge of relief and excitement mixes with apprehension about the learning curve ahead of me in this new step of my career. But my smile is sincere when I rise from my chair to shake his hand.
Foreman walks me out of the office. “And now off the record,” he says as we call the elevator. “You’re a Yale graduate? Someone with your CV could’ve applied anywhere. What made you choose us?”
“I read on your website that you work with companies from Gary, Indiana. I’ve heard a lot about that city.”
He seems to glow with pride “We do pro bono work for a nonprofit rescuing neglected buildings and remaking them into national heritage sites.” He stops, and a small curve bends his lips. “I see. I’ve been wondering what inspired you to want to relocate to the Midwest. What sparked your interest in Gary, Indiana?”
“Let’s say there’s an old friend I’m trying to repurpose as a serious girlfriend.” The twinkle in my new employer’s eye inspires me to continue, and my heart fills with warm joy as I say the words. “And if I’m lucky, I’m hoping she’ll let me repurpose her as my fiancée.”
Chapter 36
Sophia
I really didn’t think this over.
When I decided to show my students a slide show of masterpieces from the Louvre, I felt proud of myself. It saw it as a sign that I’m doing better—forgiving my father and on the way to healing from my heartbreak. I was pleased that my new maturity allowed me to fulfill my duty of bringing cultural enlightenment to at-risk teenagers.
It never occurred to me they’d be unable to get past the fact that the statues are naked.
The kids bend over their desks, splitting their sides with laughter. I try to explain the beauty of the “Sleeping Hermaphrodite” statue, over eighteen hundred years old—and all they can see is “his butt.” (72)
“Very funny, Antoine,” I address the boy who’d just made the butt comment, then move my hand in circles asking them to wrap it up. “Now let’s get back to the slide show.”
Another time, it would’ve been difficult to stop myself from laughing with them, just because their youthful joy is so contagious. But the slide show has saddened me beyond what I expected. It’s no longer about the memories of the books my father brought home after his first trip; now it’s worse. Every image reminds me of him, Trevor, and of each time he asked me to explain the paintings and sculptures to him.
But I’m not giving up, darn it. I’m going to track him down if I die in the attempt. I already called Lawson, Collins and Lawson and learned that Trevor hasn’t returned there yet. But I made their secretary promise to call me back immediately if he resurfaces.
I click my remote to move to the next slide, the famous Venus de Milo (73). “Look at the beautiful folds in
her tunic,” I say, pointing at the fabric covering her lower body. And of course, the boys giggle and someone whispers about her boobs.
One of the girls raises her hand. “She’s missing her arms,” she points out the obvious. “Is that supposed to mean she’s powerless?”
A rush of pride overcomes me. They have been listening to my previous explanations about finding the symbolism in art. I smile at the girl, who’s most likely finding something in the statue that reminds her of her own life. “No, sweetie. The original statue did have arms; it got broken.” And there must be a metaphor of everybody’s life right there. “Archeologists worked to repair it, but her arms were never found.”
“But don’t worry, she’s not powerless. She gives lethal karate kicks.”
The group bursts into laughter, but I jolt and scan the room in search of the source of the familiar deep voice. My heart speeds up. Trevor is reclining in a classroom chair in the back row. Despite the joke, he’s wearing his lawyer’s face, not allowing me to guess his mood. Am I imagining that soft curve in his lips and that warm glow in his eyes? Am I imagining all of this?
Apparently I’m not, since the students have obviously seen him. The teenagers also seem to notice my fiery-red blush and my stammer, struggling for words, because they clap, hoot, and whisper, sounding like the laugh track of a sitcom.
“Class dismissed,” I announce when I find my voice. The kids cackle away and elbow each other as they rise from their seats and head for the door. They throw glances at us over their shoulders before exiting the classroom and leaving us alone.
Trevor hasn’t moved from the chair. Unsure of what to do, I remain still in front of the dry erase board, feeling the thudding of my heart. I can only imagine that if he’s come all the way to Gary, he’s here to make peace. I want to jump on him and kiss him. I want to cry, begging him to forgive me. But instead I wait, motionless, for what he has to say.
He slowly rises from his chair, slings a laptop carrier over his shoulder and inches in my direction.
And suddenly panic rises in me. Everything was so magical between us when we walked among some of the most beautiful places on earth. Will it be the same here, in Gary, Indiana, in the middle of my normal life? What if the magic is gone? Is he asking himself the same questions as he approaches? Is that why he hasn’t kissed me yet? Is that why he hasn’t taken me into his arms?
“What brings you here?” I ask, vaguely aware that something seems different in his appearance, yet surprisingly familiar, as if I’d known him all my life and not only a few weeks.
“I was in the neighborhood.” He loosens his tie—that’s what’s different! He’s wearing a tie! His lightweight business suit doesn’t strike me as too distant from his Paris uniform of dark pants and a jacket. But now, on second look, it becomes him really well. He’s also had a sharp haircut and his face is one step above clean shaven—cleaner than I’ve ever seen it.
He reaches into the laptop bag and hands me a folder. “I needed to give you this. It’s a way to make it up to you for the information I withheld previously.”
I pick up the folder, but can’t understand at first glance what those papers are. “What is it?”
“It’s the airline records from your parents’ flight.”
My eyes slide to the P letter and I find both their names and next to them the word “Boarded.” It confirms what I always knew, that they did board the plane and did crash with it. Somehow, this knowledge doesn’t cause me any sorrow. After reality shattered the illusion I had of them, that fantasy of finding them alive disappeared too.
“My private detective moved incredibly fast,” Trevor continues. “He also tracked down an old employee of the airline who remembered very clearly having helped the staff to take care of the plane boarding proceedings. She thinks she remembers your parents.” He removes his tie. “Even though it was twenty years ago, the fact that the plane crashed shortly afterward made her remember the couple who begged her to change their seats so they could sit together. Because they’d just made up from a big fight and wanted to hold hands and kiss during the flight. She felt so moved by it she upgraded them to first class. Maybe it was them.”
It warms my heart to see on the passengers’ list that my parents’ seats are together and in first class. I can choose to believe that he caught up with her and she forgave him, that they had a chance to make peace before the crash. Later on, when I’m less tense, I’ll probably cry my eyes out about this. But right now, I must put the past aside. I need to know what’s going to happen to my present and my future. With Trevor. “Thank you,” I mutter.
Is that it? Is that what he came for?
“I guess my point is…” He avoids my eyes and shifts his weight from one foot to the other like I’ve seen him do before when he’s unsure about something. “I know this must be painful and bittersweet. But I also know you’re strong enough to handle it. I apologize if I didn’t trust your strength before. I won’t make that mistake again.”
I bow my head. “Thank you. Anything else?” I’m giving him my best poker face, which is lousy.
“I also brought you a present.” He searches the bag, and when his hand emerges from it, he’s holding something. It’s a small replica of Rodin’s The Kiss statue (42, 74).
“I almost got you the Canova statue, too, but it didn’t make sense since I’d already given you the poster.” He extends the sculpture to me. I take it and study it, surprised at its beauty and quality. It captures the details of the lovers’ embrace so well, his fingers on her hip, the lack of distance between their fused mouths.
And at once it hits me that our story is about to change. We’re moving from the realm of longing to the realm of consummation.
But why is he so cautious? Why hasn’t he jumped on me already? “Trevor, I…”
“Wait. I have bullet points to cover.” He’s not joking. He pulls index cards out of his bag and reviews some notes. “Do you remember that day you wanted to go to the Louvre and I insisted on going to the modern art museum instead?”
I smile at the memory. “We didn’t exactly love it.”
“We both hated it,” he corrects. “But I was forever thankful that you had humored me by going there. If you hadn’t, I would’ve spent the rest of the trip thinking I missed something amazing. That’s why you were the best travel companion I ever had. You’re not weak by giving in when I want something, you’re smart, and you allow me to figure things out on my own. And then, you came up with the idea of going to the Rodin museum; that was one of the best days of my life, and it changed my view of art forever.”
I’m warm and cozy inside, but also getting impatient. “I’m still waiting for you to make your point.”
“Don’t you see? The Rodin museum wasn’t exactly what you wanted or what I wanted at first,” he explains, “but it ended up being way better than either option. That’s how good we are together!”
And I finally start to get his point. He’s talking about the decisions ahead of us, about where to live if we want to continue this relationship. My heart speeds up even more.
He takes a step closer to grab my hand and my chest flutters. For the first time there is contact between us. And that’s promising. “We have very different views of life,” he continues. “And we have very different wish lists and definitions for what ‘home’ should look like. But I just know that we’re the best team in the world. Your skills and mine complement each other. And we can make anything work—”
“Would you please stop talking and kiss me already?” I blurt the words out, surprising myself. So much for the shy country girl.
His head jerks back and he blinks in surprise, but then his attractive features light up with a swoon-worthy smile. “Yes, ma’am.”
The moment our lips meet something cracks inside me, crumbling the gloom that has enveloped me since my talk with Dominique. How could I ever doubt that love exists? I don’t need the memory of my parents to believe it anymore. I’ve found i
t myself.
We kiss with desperation, and every ardent kiss we shared before flashes through my mind like a whirlpool. I love this man’s mouth. I love his tongue, skillfully awakening mine. I love that strong jaw that today feels smoother than ever against my face. I love those large, beautiful hands that currently clasp my back and my hips to crush my body against his. I adore that strong body I vividly remember rocking under the blankets with me, skin against skin.
I love his smell; I love his warmth; I love the hardness of his arousal pressing against me, mirroring the hunger I’ve accumulated in the past weeks.
Giggles and mumbles in the distance remind me I’m at work, and someone could bolt into the classroom any moment. I force myself to wind down the kiss by alternating it with softer caresses and smaller, lighter brushes of the lips, until we eventually stop kissing and just hug.
We catch our breaths in each other’s arms, our necks hooked. I’m so happy right now I don’t even care if we have to maintain a long-distance relationship. After being in two different continents was on the menu, the distance from Indiana to New York doesn’t seem like a big deal.
Wait.
A question grips me, and I push away from his chest to look at him. “Wait, what do you mean by, you were ‘in the neighborhood’?”
“I was. Sort of.” His fluttering eyelashes make him look so impishly cute I want to kiss him again. “I was in Chicago and decided to take a thirty-mile detour and swing by.”
“Swing by?”
“Just spontaneously.” A devilish smile dances on his lips. “After my private detective tracked down what school you work at, and after a couple of phone calls to figure out your class schedule.”
“A couple?” I tilt my head with a twinkle.
“Seven,” he confesses.
No surprise. He’s the planning genius.
“And what were you doing in Chicago?”
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