‘Genie, really, there’s no need to get upset—’
‘Oh, dear. Just seeing those big blue eyes of yours makes me think of your mother,’ she cuts in, her voice quivering. ‘God bless her soul. And your father only a month later. I knew he couldn’t live without her for much longer. They were so in love; I’ve never seen a happier pair.’ She is sobbing now as she reaches for me, pulling me tightly into her chest where her massive bust swallows me up. ‘To think you’d lose them both after the loss of beautiful Jules all those years ago. And now the house. You poor, poor girl.’
I try to pull away – not to be rude, but only because she is suffocating me. Mrs. Robertson’s breasts are famous in the small town of Wooster, Ohio, and once she traps you in that endless abyss, there’s no telling if you’ll make it out still breathing. As children, my little sister Jules and I had many near-death experiences in that bust.
Finally, after her tears have sufficiently soaked my short head of dark brown hair, I manage to release myself from her stronghold.
‘Thank you, Genie. But really, I’m okay,’ I assure her. ‘Just finishing things up with the sale of the house, then back to Manhattan.’
I smile warmly at her as she wipes at her tears; I’m used to being the strong one amid unimaginable loss. There is no other way to be, really, if you want to survive the loss of a home, the loss of an entire family.
She sniffles as she grabs my hand. ‘You’ve always been such a busy bee, with your fancy talk-show job in Manhattan. So glamorous. If only Jules could be here to see all of the amazing things you’ve done with your life…’
As Mrs. Robertson continues gushing and babbling, the way she has been doing since I was a child, my gaze drifts out to the ‘For Sale’ sign I have just taken down in our little front lawn – the same lawn my sister and I used to run around in as little girls. The same lawn where, seventeen years ago, I watched my mother collapse when a policeman pulled up and broke the news that Jules had been killed in a car accident at the young age of sixteen. And the very same lawn where my father keeled over from a fatal heart attack only three months ago, shortly after my mother passed from pancreatic cancer.
I need to get back to New York, I think as the familiar sound of Mrs. Robertson’s voice makes me remember a time when my entire family was together, when we were happy.
Now, it’s just me. And I need to get out of here.
‘Olivia, dear, are you listening?’
‘Of course, Genie,’ I say, placing a hand on her arm. ‘And I’m so thankful for your concern, but I need to wrap things up with the movers, sign some papers, and catch my flight back to the city tonight.’
‘Oh, I hope I haven’t upset you. You know not to pay any attention to me. I just can’t stop chattering!’
I can’t help but laugh a little. ‘I know, and that’s why we love you. But I really do have to run. I’m sorry I can’t stay and talk more.’
She nods, reaching for my hand. ‘You’re still so much like your mother, you know – always so strong, so put together. You will stay in touch, won’t you?’
‘Of course,’ I say, knowing that my demanding job catering to Miranda makes it next to impossible for me to stay in touch with anyone these days, but what else can I tell her?
She hugs me one last time, and just for a moment, instead of fighting Genie’s embrace, I allow myself to enjoy the feeling of someone else holding me up for a change.
She kisses me on the cheek, then whispers in my ear. ‘It’s OK to be vulnerable once in a while, dear, especially after all that you’ve been through.’ With a squeeze of the hand, Mrs. Robertson sets off to her little brick home across the street, and I am left alone on the front porch, swallowing the knot in my throat, knowing that vulnerable is not an option.
After the movers pull away, I turn to lock the front door for the last time, but instead find myself pushing through the doorway and stepping into the empty living room. The sun has set outside, leaving the house almost completely dark, but I don’t need anything to light my way.
I have my memories.
My feet carry me over the soft white carpet, down the long hallway and up the stairs to the bedroom I shared with Jules until the day she was taken from me. I sit on the floor in the middle of our old room, close my eyes, and immediately her beautiful face lights up the darkness. I can see the freckles that covered her nose, the way her strawberry-blonde hair curled at the ends, and the dimples that popped in her rosy cheeks every time she flashed her glowing, sweet smile. She was an exact replica – well, a much prettier, more feminine replica – of my jovial, red-headed father.
‘It’s just me now, Jules.’ My voice is shaking, and I hope that wherever she is, she can hear me. ‘Mom and Dad…they’re gone too now. But I suppose you already know that. I miss them so much. I should’ve come home more often when mom was sick…I should’ve been here for both of them. But my job and my life in New York – it’s all just so crazy. I barely have time to eat lunch these days, let alone sneak away from the city for a weekend.’
I can almost see Jules’ sparkling green eyes narrowing, telling me to be honest with her.
‘I suppose the truth, though, is that I just hated being here, in this house, without you. And now…it’s too late.’
The silence that greets me in this shell of a house – a home that once carried so much love – is deafening tonight. So loud, I think it may actually break my heart in half.
But then, just when I feel myself crumbling, my body curling into a ball of sorrow on the carpet, Jules’ unmistakable voice flitters into my mind.
‘Paris.’
I lift my tear-stained face from the floor, looking around the darkened bedroom, but she isn’t here.
Of course she isn’t. God, am I losing my mind?
I peel myself off the floor, but just as I make it to my feet, I hear her again.
‘Paris.’
This time the hairs on the back of my neck are standing on end, and goosebumps are slithering up my arms.
My eye catches the open closet door, and suddenly I remember.
The Paris journal.
I run to the closet and switch on the light inside. There is nothing left in here, though, except for a couple of dust bunnies floating around on the floor. The shelf above appears to be empty as well, but as I stand on my tiptoes and reach a hand up there, just in case, my fingers brush against what feels like the spine of a book.
My heart beats a little faster as I pull it down to find the journal my sister and I started when we were only little girls, the one we wrote in together until she was killed.
On the cover is a picture of the Eiffel Tower, and tucked inside are all the beautiful post cards we collected of the city we always dreamed of visiting together one day, and the city our French-teacher mother always gushed about: Paris.
I slide down the closet wall, lost in a memory of me and Jules lying on our stomachs on her bed, giggling and scribbling away – crushes, girlfriend gossip, break-ups, plans for the future – it’s all here in our Paris journal.
I flip to the last entry, my teary eyes skimming Jules’ dainty handwriting.
I, Julia Banks, and my big sister Olivia Banks swear to each other that in the next year, we will go to Paris together and accomplish the following:
1 – Eat the best chocolate croissant in the city.
2 – Buy a pretty French bra on the Champs Élysées (ooh la la!).
3 – Make and devour a Nutella crêpe in Montmartre.
4 – Dance in the Tuileries Gardens underneath a full moon.
5 – French kiss a French boy at the top of the Eiffel Tower.
At the bottom of the page, we signed our own little Paris contract to each other, dating it February 18, 1997.
That was one week before we lost her.
I never did make that trip to Paris. And despite her love affair with France, my mother never traveled there again either.
We were both too devastated to do anything tha
t may have reminded us of Jules – of the chances that were stolen from her, of the dreams she never realized.
My phone buzzes, startling me from my daze. Of course, it’s a text from Miranda.
Have you left Ohio yet? Please don’t fall in love with an old high school fling or some bibs-sporting country boy while you’re home. I need you here. My ‘stand-in’ Olivia is a complete moron, not to mention I can barely concentrate on anything she’s saying with that frizzy nest of hair on her head. Your absence is an epic disaster. EPIC.
Sighing, I return my gaze back to the list, to the promise I made to my sister all those years ago. And as I think about Miranda’s screeching voice narrating that text message, suddenly I know there is only one thing left to do.
Go to Paris.
Two
The next morning, after an overnight flight and a long talk with Miranda, promising her that I would only be gone for one more day, I arrive for the first time ever…in Paris.
With only the purse on my shoulder, the passport I carry with me at all times (just in case Miranda decides she needs to jet off to an exotic location at a moment’s notice), and the Paris journal in hand, I walk out of the bustling Charles de Gaulle airport. The fresh spring air holds a hint of promise as I feel the sorrow and the stress of my life back home leaving my body. A bright yellow taxi pulls up to the curb and I step inside, excited to finally deliver on the promises I made to my sister all those years ago.
The French my mother spoke to us throughout our childhood and teen years flows easily from my mouth as I ask the driver to take me to the eighteenth arrondissement so that I can begin by accomplishing the third item on our list:
Make and devour a Nutella crêpe in Montmartre.
I couldn’t imagine a better way to start off my one day in the City of Lights.
The cab whisks me toward the city, and all the while I am poring over the pages of our Paris Journal, laughing and tearing up over the memories – the good and the bad. I have almost reached the end of the thick, weathered notebook when I lift my gaze to find the majestic Basilique du Sacré Coeur towering up on a hillside in the distance.
The massive white dome atop the basilica shoots high into the backdrop of the deep blue sky above, reminding me of one of the postcards our mother had given to us, which is still tucked inside the journal on my lap.
As we wind closer, the famous landmark in Montmartre looks even more breathtaking than in the photo, making me wish with every ounce of my being that Jules could be here with me to see this.
Squeezing the journal in my hands as we drive up through the hilly side streets, I remind myself that she is here, by my side. It was her voice, after all, that found me in the darkness last night, that led me back to the journal, and here to this magical city we dreamt of visiting long ago.
After we wind around the base of the basilica and down a few more side streets, the cab drops me off in a charming cobblestone square facing Le Consulat Restaurant.
‘C’est bon?’ the young French cabdriver asks with a smile.
‘Parfait,’ I say before handing him a stack of euros. ‘Merci, monsieur!’
And with that, I whip open the cab door and take my very first steps onto the quaint cobblestone streets of Paris’ eighteenth arrondissement. To my right, two old men sit outside at the Café Montmartre, sipping their morning tasses de café, the rich scent of French coffee making my mouth water. Beautiful artwork speckles the sidewalk to my left underneath the green awning of the Galerie Butte Montmartre. A quick glance down the charming little rues which span in all directions around me reveals red flowers spilling over black balconies, tourists and French people alike combing the streets, marveling at the charm, the old beauty of this enchanting pocket of Paris.
And as for me, I am overwhelmed with emotion.
Already, I love it here.
Glancing upward, I catch a swirl of puffy white clouds floating calmly overhead while the morning sun beats down on my cheeks.
How have I waited so long to make our dream come true, Jules?
And how on earth will I return to the concrete jungle of Manhattan after only one day in Paris—a city which so clearly deserves days, weeks, months of exploration?
‘Vous cherchez quelque chose, mademoiselle?’ Are you looking for something, Miss?
Blinking from the glare of the sun, I swivel around to find a man with a mess of light brown hair sweeping across his deep blue eyes. He has a smudge of flour on his scruffy cheeks, a white apron thrown over his shoulder, and a curious smile on his face.
‘Yes, in fact, I’m looking for a crêperie where I can make a Nutella crêpe,’ I say in French.
‘Ahh, you want to make a crêpe?’ he responds in English, his accent thick and undeniably sexy.
‘Yes, and then I’d like to devour it.’ I smile back at him, trying not to stare too long at the cut of his arms in the snug gray T-shirt he is wearing.
He certainly doesn’t hesitate to give me the once over, though, as he lets out a charming laugh, his smile lighting up his eyes even more.
‘Well, of course you will devour the crêpe…what else would you do with it?’
A nervous giggle escapes my lips when I realize that I, Olivia Banks, the woman who hasn’t had time to flirt with anyone but the crew on the talk show where I live and breathe from dawn till dusk every day, am actually standing on a beautiful street in Paris flirting with an even more beautiful Frenchman.
‘Not sure,’ I respond finally. ‘Can you point me in the right direction?’
‘But of course, mademoiselle. I know just the place.’ He nods down the street, then takes off over the cobblestones, whistling a happy little tune as we walk.
‘So, let me guess,’ he says. ‘You are American, and this is your first time in Paris.’ He sizes me up once more, this time brushing the hair out of his eyes to get a better look.
‘That obvious, huh?’
He chuckles. ‘I watched you step out of the cab – your eyes, they lit up like you’d never seen anything so magnificent.’
The depth of his observation catches me off guard. ‘I haven’t,’ I admit. ‘I mean of course I’ve seen pictures of Paris – I’ve dreamt of coming here since I was young. But to be here, on these streets…I’m already in love.’
‘You American women, hopeless romantics,’ he says with a grin.
‘I’ve met a few Frenchmen in my time…you’re not so different, I’d say.’
He shrugs. ‘Maybe not.’
‘You live here in Montmartre, I assume?’
We round a corner, squeezing past a few Italian-speaking tourists, then pick up our pace as we stroll down a winding little hill.
‘Yes, live and work here. I’ve traveled the world, but I wouldn’t want to call anywhere else home.’
‘Smart man,’ I say. ‘Where do you work?’
Just as I ask the question, he stops in front of a boulangerie, gesturing inside. The scents of buttery bread, sugary patisseries and melted chocolate waft out its front doors, making me realize how hungry I am after my overnight flight.
‘Voilà,’ he says.
Suddenly the flour on his cheeks and the apron over his broad shoulders are making sense. ‘You work here?’
He plants his fists on his hips, puffing out his chest, proud…and adorable. ‘Yes, this is the boulangerie of my father. After he passed last year, he left it to me.’
‘So you’re telling me you get to smell freshly baked baguettes all day long? And eat them?’
‘Yes, that is right.’
‘Do you just walk out your door every morning and think you’re the luckiest man alive?’
‘With where I live, and the work that I do, yes, I am lucky. Other areas of my life…’ he trails off, his big blue eyes suddenly pensive, ‘…not so lucky. But such is life, no?’
‘Oui, c’est la vie,’ I say, thinking of the loss of my childhood home, my mom, my dad and my sweet sister Jules. Not wanting to get into our sad stories on
such a happy morning, I change the subject.
‘So this must mean you’re an expert on the pain au chocolat?’ I ask.
‘I thought you wanted a Nutella crêpe, but now you want a chocolate croissant?’
‘Well, I need to make and eat a Nutella crêpe here in Montmartre, then I need to eat the best chocolate croissant in all of Paris, and there are a few other things I need to accomplish before my flight leaves tonight.’
He nods down at the Paris journal in my hands. ‘A list of things you must do in the magical City of Lights? In only one day?’
‘Exactly.’
‘Can I see the rest of the list?’ he says, making a bold reach for the journal. ‘Maybe I can help.’
I think of number five, immediately picturing a kiss with this sexy boulanger on top of the Eiffel Tower. Oh, Jules would definitely approve.
Just as his fingers brush the spine, though, I hug the journal tightly to my chest. ‘No you may not see the list – it’s private.’
‘Oh, excuse-moi,’ he says, chuckling. ‘Well, if you only have one day, we better get started with the crêpe, no?’
‘Can we make it here, at your boulangerie?’
‘I want to take you next door to Jacques’ crêperie – he is the expert. But first, you haven’t told me your name.’
‘And you haven’t told me yours,’ I say, so enjoying this early morning Paris flirtation.
‘I’m Alex, short for Alexandre. And you? Wait, let me guess.’
I place a hand on my hip, laughing. ‘Okay, shoot.’
‘Belle?’ Beautiful?
I shake my head.
‘Jolie?’ Pretty?
‘Well, that’s nice, but try again.’
‘Charmante, éblouissante, ravissante, magnifique, adorable?’ Charming, stunning, ravishing, magnificent, adorable?
Now a flush is creeping over my cheeks, but this smooth French guy just stands there, totally in his element, brushing his thumb over his chin, searching for another word that will flatter this boyfriend-less américaine.
SUNLOUNGER 2: Beach Read Bliss (Sunlounger Stories) Page 58