by Liz Talley
She smiled and rolled her eyes. “No scorekeeping in Taylor’s Grove. We’re all playing for the same team.” Turning her attention to Sawyer, she added, “Strawberries are going to get mushy if we don’t get back and eat them pretty soon.”
He nodded. “Can’t let that happen. See you tomorrow, Tank.” He patted his friend’s shoulder in parting. They crossed Yager Circle and headed down Main Street before he finally asked, “So are you going to tell me what happened at prayer group?”
She dreaded bringing up the subject of Tara’s trip, and related the incident to him as innocuously as possible, stressing Sue’s general displeasure of Tara’s nature.
Just as she’d hoped, his eyes flashed anger at Sue’s snide comments, but his guarded chuckle about her own retort came with a warning. “You know she’s not going to let you have the last word.”
“I don’t care.” Which wasn’t exactly the truth. She did care...too much. About Sue’s opinion, and everybody else’s in this antiquated fishbowl of a town. She and Sawyer turned up their driveway, bypassing the front door and going around to the patio doors in the back. “I just get so tired of her holier-than-thou attitude.”
“You know better than to let Sue get to you.” Sawyer opened the door, letting her pass through first, then followed her in. “She means well.”
The irritation that started with the mention of Sue’s name flickered higher. “You always take up for her.”
“I just try to understand where she’s coming from.” He got two bowls from the cabinet and set them on the kitchen counter.
Faith clutched his arm, and pulled him around to look at her. “How about me? Have you tried to understand where I’m coming from?”
His look lasted a long moment, his lips pressed together in a thin line. “We’re not talking about prayer group anymore, are we?”
“We’re talking about the fact that you haven’t touched me for nearly a month. Are you even trying to understand?”
The cloak of sadness that had been absent in his eyes during supper dropped back into place. “Faith, I can’t—”
“Can’t or won’t?” Emotion sent a tremor through her body. “Why can’t you understand? Why won’t you let yourself understand?” She reached behind her and jerked the zipper of the shift down. “I love you.” She pushed the dress off her shoulders and arms, exposing her breasts clad in pink. The dress caught on her hips. She hooked it with her thumbs and shoved it free to pool around her ankles. “You always forgive Sue. I want you to forgive me. I want you to want me.” She stepped into him, sliding her arms around his waist, plastering her body against his.
His hands found her shoulders, and he pushed her gently away to hold her at arm’s length. “I want that, too, Faith. I pray for that every night.” He let go of her, his arms dropping like heavy weights to his side. “But, it’s not happening. My prayers get clogged by other thoughts like, what if I lose Tara completely? What if she finds Jacques Martin and chooses him over me?”
“That’s not going to happen, Sawyer.”
“It could happen. The man was able to lure you away from me.” He turned his gaze away from her toward the back window. “Oh, I know it was only one night and alcohol was involved. I get that. But your night with him caused a major change in us. It changed the way you relate to me. I tell myself that he gave us Tara...and she’s so precious to me...but what if finding him changes the way she relates to me?”
Faith stayed quiet. She would let him talk and get it all out. Surely, that could only help.
He wiped a hand down his face, leaving a glistening dampness below his eyes, and turned back to her. “And every night I try to talk myself into going to you in our room.” He looked her up and down, his face contorted with anguish. “You’re a beautiful, vibrant woman, Faith.”
She stepped into him again, pleading with her eyes. “Then do it. Make love to me. Please.”
The anguish settled into a look of despair. “I can’t.” He took her hand and moved it slowly to his groin.
It was a familiar gesture, but it took on a surreal quality as her hand groped for something that wasn’t there. Nothing. No detection of even the first stirring of an erection. The bulge she’d expected was instead a small mass as soft and pliable as putty.
His whisper was coarse and strangled. “I. Can’t.”
He released her hand, and she stepped away from him quickly. Her eyes blurred as she leaned over to gather her dress, snatching it up and making a dash for the bedroom.
She slammed the door and locked it behind her, then collapsed against it onto the floor as the wave of understanding washed over her.
Sawyer—the only man she’d ever loved—couldn’t get an erection for her.
He didn’t want her.
And maybe never would again.
* * *
TARA SAT AT the café in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower, still ogling the beauty of Paris’s quintessential landmark while practicing her lines. The addresses of forty-three Jacques Martins were programmed into her GPS, and, though she was aware of the challenge she faced linguistically, she was armed emotionally for whatever happened. Or so she hoped.
Garrett Hughes’s stuffy behavior last night had been good practice, reminding her that first impressions weren’t always reliable. What a surprise he’d turned out to be—and not the pleasant kind. She’d been looking forward to some occasional American conversation while she was here, and yeah, maybe a little casual flirting, as well. But the guy had turned out to be a contrary curmudgeon who obviously resented her staking a claim to part of the terrace that he used like it was his sole dominion.
Well, he could go piss up a rope. She’d paid the rent for a month, and that gave her terrace privileges. Much as she liked the apartment, she wasn’t going to spend all her time inside when she could be taking her meals and her books outdoors.
Besides, Dylan was a delight. He made her feel at home. And from where she was sitting at the moment, looking out over a park that could very likely hold a huge chunk of Taylor’s Grove, it was obvious she wasn’t at home anymore.
She signed the receipt the waiter brought and picked up her things. The GPS dangled from her wrist, where she could check it often. She punched up the set of coordinates for the maybe-father closest to the Eiffel Tower and began her first search, following the map toward the blinking dot. It was just like the geocaching she’d explained to Dylan yesterday, but with what could be a priceless treasure as the find rather than a box of trinkets.
The exquisite beauty of the city with its wide, tree-lined avenues and perfectly proportioned balances of lines and curves, man-made and natural, tempted Tara to forget the hunt and give in to the desire to explore. But her mind kept running ahead to her destination, and her heart pumped fast to keep up.
The map guided her around the final turn to a street filled with small boutiques rather than homes. The internet search had yielded all addresses—business and residential—that had a Jacques Martin linked to it, but she was surprised nonetheless...and maybe a little relieved...to see that the first address was that of a shop. Walking into a store was easier than ringing a private doorbell.
She stopped outside the address and took several deep breaths before pushing the door open and stepping inside. The strong, pervasive scent of formaldehyde greeted her from the bolts of materials hanging from chains, which covered the walls in brocades, damasks and linens. Her eyes and nose started to water simultaneously. The reaction was familiar, and her memory scampered back to hours she’d spent in fabric stores with Grandma O’Malley. She’d had the forethought to bring tissues in case the reunion with her father involved tears...of any kind.
She snatched one from her pocket and dabbed, trying not to smear her carefully applied mascara.
Several customers milled about, eyeing the rich colors in the woven tapestrie
s, running their palms over the nap to change the shading of the velvet. Tara ran her fingertips across a bolt of deep brown fabric—its hue reminded her of Garrett’s eyes.
Jerk, she reminded herself.
Soon, an elderly woman with silver hair pulled back into a severe bun turned her attention to Tara. A head-to-foot scan pinched her expression into a condescending sneer. “Bonjour, mademoiselle.”
“Bonjour, madame.” Tara’s eyes jerked involuntarily to the door—yes, it was still there—before settling back on the woman. “Je m’appelle Tara O’Malley. Je cherche Jacques Martin. Est-il ici?”
A short pause allowed the woman time to exchange her sneer for a knowing smirk. “Oui. Un instant.”
She disappeared into a back room, giving Tara time to become all-too-aware of the sound of her pulse swishing through her ears.
The woman appeared again, followed by a striking, middle-aged man in an impeccably cut gray suit that set off his salt-and-pepper hair, which was combed back and heavily gelled.
His age looked promising, and Tara’s breath stopped as she scanned his face for a trace of anything familial and stalled on his mouth. It was wide like hers, and it curved upward into a smile as he approached.
“Bonjour, mademoiselle.” His deep voice was pleasant and welcoming, and she felt her courage bolstered at the sound.
“Bonjour, Monsieur Martin?” He nodded and Tara extended her hand, pumping it a tad too enthusiastically when he took it. “Je m’appelle Tara O’Malley. I...uh...” She caught her breath before plunging into the script she had memorized. “Je viens des États-Unis, et je cherche un ami de ma famille. Il s’appelle Jacques Martin. Il habitait à Murray, Kentucky.” A family friend who had lived in Murray, Kentucky had seemed like the most nonthreatening approach. She watched him closely for a reaction.
The man’s gray eyes held a hint of disappointment as his smile thinned. “Ah, ce n’est pas moi. Je suis désolé.”
Tara swallowed her own disappointment, becoming aware of the way his thumb caressed her hand, which he still held, not even seeming to notice the missing digits. Obviously, they were coming at this conversation from very different angles.
She pulled her hand, but he gripped it tighter and leaned in to whisper something. She didn’t understand the words, but his tone took on a smooth and oily quality like his hair. His mouth curved again into a leer that drove the scene past extreme ick and into dimensions all its own.
Tara jerked her hand from his, mortified at the turn things had taken. “Au revoir, monsieur.” She didn’t say thank you or try to ask her other memorized questions about whether he knew any other Jacques Martins she could contact. All she could think about was getting to the door and into fresh air. Once outside, the shudder that passed through her could’ve rocked a seismic score on the Richter scale as she allowed herself to express it verbally with a loud “eww!”
She took off at a fast walk, not even stopping to get her bearings for a couple of blocks. When she did, she was in front of Rodin’s studio and museum—the perfect place to get her mind off of her creepy encounter with Jacques Martin number one.
The garden was especially inviting, quiet and relatively uncrowded compared to the area around the Eiffel Tower. She spent the entire afternoon in the shadow of Balzac and The Thinker, taking pictures of the statues and attaching them to text messages to family and friends.
Emma called as Tara boarded the metro late in the afternoon to head back home. She reacted with the proper “eww” as Tara related her tale of the first Jacques, and when she heard about Garrett Hughes’s request for privacy, she replied with “What a jerk!”
As she had so often in their years together, Tara reminded herself how fortunate she was to have a best friend who viewed the world with a similar enough perspective to her own to make them compatible, yet still different enough to keep their conversations interesting.
Back at her flat, Tara poured a glass of wine and took it and her journal out to the terrace to write about the experiences of her day—another of Emma’s suggestions to help her work through the emotion of her search for her birth father.
She’d thought the idea a little silly at first, but as she started to chronicle not only her emotions but her impressions as a first-time visitor to Paris, her hand flew across the pages, filling up one after another. She was especially surprised at the depth of disappointment today’s encounter churned up. But plenty more addresses remained to be searched.
“Hi, Tara.”
She looked up to see Dylan standing a few feet away, ball and glove in hand.
“Hi, Dylan. How are you today?”
“I’m fine.” He stayed awkwardly planted to his spot. “What are you doing?”
She held up the book she’d been writing in. “I went to the Eiffel Tower and the Musée Rodin today, so I’ve been writing in my journal about those places. Have you ever been to the Musée Rodin?”
“Yeah, lots of times.”
She patted the empty seat beside her. “Come tell me what you like best about it.”
He hesitated for only a second, then hurried to plop down in the proffered seat. “Dad says I’m not supposed to bother you, but I don’t guess I’m bothering you if you invite me. Isn’t that right?”
Tara smiled at the child’s honesty. “That’s right. If I invite you, it means I want some company.”
The warmth in Dylan’s smile thawed the icy coating that had surrounded Tara’s heart as she wrote her review of today’s father search.
“What I like best about the Musée Rodin is the ice cream,” he answered her original question. “But the statue I like best is The Burghers of Calais.”
“That was my favorite, too!” Tara was intrigued that she and the six-year-old were both taken by the same piece out of all the choices. “Why do you like that one best?”
“Because my dad told me the story about those guys being heroes. They’re not superheroes like Iron Man and Thor, but they saved a lot of people, so I like them.”
“Yeah, me, too...for the same reason.” Tara made a mental note to include this delightful conversation in her journal. “Is your dad home yet?”
Dylan shook his head. “He has to work late again tonight.”
“Well, I wouldn’t mind playing a little catch if you’d like.”
Dylan shot out of his chair. “Cool! I’ll get Dad’s glove for you.”
They played for almost an hour, but as it neared the time when Garrett had gotten home the night before, Tara thought about what the man had asked of her.
“Whew! I’m getting tired, Dylan.” She faked it a little, but not too much. “I think I’d better call it a night and go grab a bite of supper.”
“Okay.”
She handed the glove back to him and ruffled her hand through his hair. “Thanks for playing with me. It was fun.”
“Maybe we can play again tomorrow,” he said and then hurried to add, “if I don’t bother you.”
“Maybe.”
She gathered up her things and went inside as Dylan continued his game by throwing the ball against the wall by his terrace door.
Tara heated some soup and fixed a salad for a light meal. When she sat down at the table, she saw that Garrett had gotten home and was on the terrace playing catch with his indefatigable son.
The guy may be a jerk, but he was obviously doing something right. Dylan seemed well-adjusted and was a delight to be around.
Maybe giving them their private terrace time wasn’t such a big deal. She could sacrifice a little.
The Burghers of Calais had been willing to sacrifice everything for the people they loved.
Watching Garrett play with his son—a single dad in a foreign country, a young man who lost his wife—it struck her that Rodin could have immortalized him, as well.
And she’d seen him naked.
Definitely statueworthy.
CHAPTER EIGHT
HENRI’S NOSTRILS FLARED as the coffee cup neared his nose. “Ahh!” He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, a look of something akin to ecstasy relaxing his features. “Is there a more delicious scent in the morning than freshly ground coffee?” He paused, and a wicked gleam lit his eyes. “Peut-être a freshly ground woman, oui?”
Garrett shrugged. “It’s been so long since I’ve had a woman in the morning, I’m not sure my grinder would even work.”
A uniquely French sound came from the back of Henri’s throat. It combined humor, dismay and a touch of disdain, and Garrett had never been able to come close to mimicking it, though Dylan already had it perfected. “How are you and your American neighbor getting along?” The Frenchman took his first sip and smiled appreciatively. “You have not mentioned the wild woman in several days.”
Garrett tried to take a sip, but the coffee in his cup was still too hot. “I haven’t spoken to her since...” Since the day he’d been abrupt with her about giving him and Dylan their privacy...the day she’d looked so stung by his words. Occasionally, he’d see her wander out onto the terrace, but it was always a glimpse through the window. She never came out if he was outside. “For several days,” he finished his answer.
“You share a terrace and, for several days, you do not speak with her?”
Coupled with the guilt he was feeling about the whole Tara matter, the question irritated Garrett more than it should. “I told you before, I don’t want her around Dylan.”
“But Dylan goes to bed, does he not? There is much time to share a bottle of wine after he is asleep.”
His friend knew him all too well. Last night, Garrett had started to do just that. After Dylan was asleep, he’d put on a Miles Davis CD and opened a bottle of an exquisite 2007 cabernet that begged to be shared.
Tara was out on the terrace with her own bottle, and she wasn’t reading or writing in that book the way she usually did. She was simply sitting alone with her wine, illumined by the soft lights of the night around her, looking lovely and serene. Garrett had actually taken several steps toward the door before his own words had stopped him. “There isn’t a lot of privacy around here, so we’ll try to respect yours as much as possible while you’re here.”