Moonlight in Paris

by Pamela Hearon

  “So whatever became of this...Jacques Martin?” Tara’s voice held the same strained edge it had when she realized her two fingers were gone.

  “I never saw, never heard from him again,” Faith answered, then added, “I never wanted to. I had all I needed and wanted with you all.” Blood pounded in her temples. How could she make them understand? “Jacques was...” Someone she’d had too much alcohol with that night. Someone she’d gotten carried away celebrating with. Someone who’d helped her bear the loneliness of not being with the person she loved on one of the most important days of her life. “He was someone I barely knew.”

  Sawyer swerved around to face Tara and gathered her partial hand into both of his. “You’re my daughter, lovebug. The daughter of my heart. Like Trenton said, nothing’s ever going to change that.” He pressed their knotted hands against his chest. “I hold you right here, and nothing will ever break that grip.”

  Faith watched the tears overflow from her daughter’s eyes, unaware of her own until she felt a drop on her arm.

  Tara nodded. “I love you, Dad.” She paused and Faith held her breath and prayed that those words would be repeated to her.

  They weren’t. Instead, Tara stood, pulling her hand from Sawyer’s grip. “I really, really need to go home. I need time alone to process this.”

  Thea followed her to her feet.

  A different fear gripped Faith’s insides, a familiar one since Tara’s accident. It recurred every time one of her children left her house to drive back to their own homes. “Will you be okay making the drive back to Paducah? You want me to call Emma?”

  “I’m leaving, too. I’ll take you home,” Thea offered.

  Tara shook her head. “I don’t want to be with anyone. I’ll be okay.”

  Faith stood and reached for her, and her daughter hugged her then, but her arms felt limp and lifeless with no emotion behind them. Her parting hug with her dad had a bit more vitality, but not much.

  Faith’s breathing grew shallow when Thea didn’t hug her or Sawyer, but she did take Tara’s hand to lead the way out.

  As Tara slid the patio door closed behind her, Faith turned her attention back to her husband. They stood beside the table where their family had shared thousands of happy mealtimes. Would those be enough to blot out the anguish of today?

  She took Sawyer’s hand and tilted her head in silent question.

  “It’s not the action, Faith. It’s the deception. The betrayal.”

  He pulled his hand away and headed for his study, locking the door behind him.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “BUT HOW ARE YOU HANDLING it, really? And none of that ‘I’m okay’ stuff. I held your hair when you threw up your first beer, so I’ve seen you at your worst.” Emma blew on her spoonful of tomato soup, waiting for an answer.

  Tara reached behind her chair to shut the door to Emma’s office, pondering how to put her feelings into words. “You remember that weird, uneasy feeling inside you the first Christmas you no longer believed in Santa Claus? It’s kind of like that. I remember knowing the presents were still downstairs, waiting to be opened. But the magical quality was gone forever. That’s the way I feel. Like some kind of wonderful something has slipped away, and I’ll never be able to get it back.”

  Emma’s eyebrows knitted. “But you haven’t really lost anything. Your dad is still your dad....”

  “But I’ve lost who I thought I was. Everything I accounted to my Irish heritage—my red hair, my fair complexion, my love of Guinness. I’ve only talked myself into believing they had significance.” Tara popped a grape into her mouth. “And that makes me wonder what other things I’ve believed in that were actually of no significance.”

  “Well, maybe you need to talk to somebody.” Emma tore open a package of oyster crackers and sprinkled them over the top of her soup. “You know—” she shrugged as she stirred them in “—a professional.”

  “You’re a professional guidance counselor with a master’s in counseling. I’m talking to you.”

  Tara watched her friend’s eyebrows disappear beneath her wispy bangs. “Doctors don’t operate on family members, and counselors don’t counsel family.”

  “But we’re not—”

  “We’re just as close.”

  “Who I really want to talk to is Jacques Martin.” Tara blurted out the idea that had kept her awake most of the night. “I just want to take off for Paris and find my birth father.”

  “And what good would that do?”

  Tara thought about that question while she nibbled on a carrot. What good would it do? “Mostly it would satisfy my curiosity,” she admitted. “I can’t stop wondering what he looks like, what his personality is like. Do I have his nose? His laugh?”

  “Your mom can tell you that.”

  Tara’s throat tightened around a bite of carrot. She dropped the rest of it back into the plastic container, her appetite suddenly gone. “I can’t talk to her any more about him. At least, not yet.”

  “I understand.” The sympathy in her friend’s voice made Tara’s throat tighten again. “So what difference would it make if you found out those things about him?” Emma gave a quick nod in Tara’s direction. “You rub your lip when you’re thinking about something just like Sawyer does. No matter where those little things come from, they make up you.”

  Self-consciously, Tara dropped her hand from her mouth. “I just want to look Jacques Martin in the eye and say ‘I’m your daughter’ and see his reaction.”

  Emma eyed her warily. “Can’t you just let your imagination play out that scene for you? Paris is way too big a city to find somebody with only a name to go on. And it’s very expensive from what I hear.”

  Tara shrugged and glanced out the window to avoid eye contact. “I have my inheritance from Grandma.” She cringed at Emma’s outraged gasp.

  “You’re serious! You’ve actually given this some thought...and have a plan. It’s a crazy idea, Tara—one you need to get out of your head right now.”

  Emma’s gray eyes bored into her, causing Tara’s cheeks to burn. “Thought you weren’t going to counsel.”

  “I’m not counseling. I’m giving my best friend a verbal shake to wake her up.” Emma ran her fingertips through her short bob, fluffing the soft, chestnut ends. “Finding him would take a feat of magic. He might’ve moved. Might not want to be found. Some people don’t. Or...or he might be dead. Have you thought about that?”

  “That’s another thing. Family medical history is important.” Tara held up her half hand. “Emergencies happen. Diseases strike. It would be great to at least have a hint of what else I might come up against in the future. Mama’s family doesn’t have any heart disease, but what if it’s in his genes?”

  “Then you do all the right things to keep your heart healthy no matter what.”

  Tara looked at her friend in earnest. “Even if I didn’t find him, I could learn about my French heritage. The Irish thing I’ve always been so proud of has been jerked away from me, and now I want to replace it with something. I want to find out who I am.”

  Emma looked at her long and hard, the steel in her gaze softening to a down-gray. “Know what?” She reached across the desk to place her hand on top of Tara’s. “I’m wrong. If it means that much to you, I think you should do it.”

  “Really?” Tara jolted at Emma’s change of heart. “Because I’m thinking I want to do it soon. Like as soon as school is out.”

  “That’s short notice. Can you make all the arrangements that quickly?”

  Tara shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe through a travel agent.”

  “That will run the cost up even more. Do you know anyone who might know somebody over there?” Emma drummed the desk with her spoon. “What about Josh Essex?”

  Tara hadn’t gotten far enough in h
er planning to consider that the French teacher might have connections in Paris, but it was a good idea—he did usually take students to Paris during the summer.

  “He was eating lunch in the teachers’ lounge when I got my soda.” Emma got up quickly, abandoning her soup and crackers. “Let’s go talk to him now.”

  * * *

  “CAN WE PLAY SOME CATCH, Dad?”

  Dylan had disappeared a couple of minutes earlier, and now stood in the doorway of the flat holding a ball and wearing the St. Louis Cardinals ball cap, jersey and glove that had arrived from his grandmother that day.

  Like I could refuse. Garrett gave a wry smile. “Sure. Just let me get the dishwasher loaded.”

  Dylan set the ball and glove in the chair he’d vacated earlier and picked up his plate to help clear the table, something he rarely did. No doubt he was anxious to try out his new equipment.

  “Watch your step,” Garrett warned as the six-year-old caught his toe on the frame of the sliding patio door.

  When the Paris weather permitted, they ate every meal possible out here on the terrace. The wide expanse of concrete wasn’t anywhere near as large as their backyard had been in St. Louis, but life had its trade-offs. For a second-story flat, the extra living space the terrace afforded was well worth the small amount of extra rent. Although several other flats had windows that looked out on it, only one other had a door leading to it. And that one had been empty for over a year, so Garrett and his son had gotten used to having the entire space to themselves.

  They made quick work of loading the dishwasher, and then Garrett grabbed his own glove as they headed back out to their makeshift practice field.

  Dylan punched the new leather with his fist. “I’m ready for a fastball.”

  That drew a laugh. “One fastball comin’ up.” Garrett made a wild show of winding up, watching his son’s eyes grow huge in anticipation. At the last second, he slowed down enough to toss the ball toward the boy’s padded palm.

  Dylan kept his eye on the ball, stretching his arm out to full length and spreading his glove open as far as his short fingers would allow.

  The ball landed with a thump, and a pleased grin split Dylan’s face as he hoisted the glove and ball over his head in a triumphant gesture. “Freese makes the play!” he yelled.

  “How ’bout we send a picture of you and your new stuff to Nana and Papa?”

  “And Gram and Grandpa, too.”

  Garrett snapped the picture and messaged it to both his parents and Angela’s. Then he laid the phone down within easy reach to listen for the calls that were sure to come.

  His mom and his deceased wife’s mother called every time he sent a picture of Dylan, which was often. The distance was hard for them.

  They’d all done their damnedest to talk Garrett out of the voluntary move to Paris three years ago when the brewery he worked for was bought out by a Belgian company. Only his dad had fully understood his need to escape from the constant reminder of his wife’s suicide. And his guilt.

  No matter how they felt about it, the move hadn’t been a mistake.

  Dylan mimicked Garrett’s windup, minus the slow down at the end. The ball he released sailed wide past his father, who broke into a run to catch it on the bounce. His timing was off. He missed and wasn’t able to catch up to it until it hit the back wall.

  “Dad! Your phone’s ringing,” Dylan called.

  By the time Garrett got back to answer it, he was winded. “Allô.” He breathed heavily into the phone. “C’est Garrett.”

  “Well, your French has definitely gotten better, but the creepy heavy breathing makes me wonder if I’ve caught you at a bad time. My math says it should be around dinner time there.”

  Garrett laughed, recognizing the voice of his teammate from college Josh Essex. “Actually, it’s pitch-and-catch after dinner, Josh.”

  “Is that the new French phrase for hooking up? ’Cause, if it is, my seniors will want to know.”

  “By the time I get around to...” Dylan was within hearing distance, so Garrett veered away from what he’d been about to say. “To needing that information, the deed will probably be obsolete.”

  “I can’t even bear that thought.” Josh chuckled. “How’s Dylan doing?”

  “Growing too fast for me to keep him in jeans. We’ve resorted to rolled cuffs and belts.”

  “Well, let’s hope cuffs, belts and, of course, the deed never go out of style.”

  “I hear you,” Garrett agreed. “And to what do I owe the pleasure of this call, Monsieur Essex? Especially in the middle of your work day.”

  “I have a friend—a colleague—who’s wanting to come to Paris in a couple of weeks and plans to stay a month. Does your building have any short-term rentals?”

  Garrett’s eyes cut to the flat across the way, and then wandered on around the terrace to the window boxes devoid of flowers—a dead giveaway in spring and summer that spaces were empty. “Yeah, probably. Hold on.” He fished his wallet out of his back pocket and thumbed through the cards until he found the one he wanted. “You have a pen handy?”

  “I’m just waiting on you.”

  “Here’s the number to call.” Garrett read it off slowly. “That’s the main office of the company that owns my building. They’ll have listings of what’s available.”

  “Got it. Thanks.”

  “Will we be seeing you this summer?” For the past three years, Josh had brought groups of his students for ten-day tours of the City of Lights. The visits had certainly been the highlight of the summer for Garrett, who tried to deny to himself how much he missed the U.S.

  Josh’s sigh was fraught with frustration. “I don’t have too many interested, and a couple who were had to drop out. June 20 is the cutoff, and I’m still not sure.”

  Garrett didn’t know who was more disappointed, he or Josh. “That’s too bad.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s the damn economy. How about you? You and Dylan planning a trip stateside any time soon?”

  Garrett had been thinking this might be the year to go home for Christmas, but he was keeping mum on it in case he backed out. “Economy here’s just as bad. I might have to hock Dylan to buy tickets.”

  Dylan perked up at the mention of his name, but not enough to tear his concentration away from his task. The ball he was bouncing off the wall shot back at him. He missed it, but not for lack of trying. Garrett took that as a sure sign his boy was meant for the big leagues, and the thought made him smile.

  The familiar jangle of a school bell reverberated in the background. “Gotta go, man.” Garrett could tell his friend was on the move. “It’s the last week of school, and I’m showing The Diving Bell and the Butterfly to my third-year students.”

  “Great movie.” Garrett motioned a thumbs-up to Dylan, who’d made a successful catch. “I hope you get enough students to make your group, so we’ll get to see you.”

  “Me, too.” The background sounds heightened as lockers slamming joined the mix. “And thanks for the number. Maybe I’ll see you in a couple of months.”

  “We’ll look forward to it. See you, man.”

  “Later, dude.”

  The call ended before Garrett realized he hadn’t asked who needed a flat for a month—hadn’t even asked if the interested party was male or female. Man, he was slipping.

  While he liked the idea of having someone from close to home in the building, he hoped whoever it was wasn’t interested in the flat across from them. He and Dylan would hate to give up their private recreation area. Would hate to give up their privacy, in general.

  After the years of chaos with Angela, this terrace had become his and Dylan’s oasis of tranquility. Beyond the walls was one of the most exciting cities in the world, but here was quiet space.

  He didn’t want anything to interfere wi
th that.

  Not even for a month.

  CHAPTER THREE

  TARA BREATHED A RELIEVED sigh as the key turned in the lock. Getting lost twice in the maze of dark, windowless corridors had her convinced she’d entered some kind of Parisian warp zone and might never find the flat she’d rented. The lights in the hallways were on a timer, and didn’t stay on very long. Just finding the switches was like being on a treasure hunt...blindfolded...with no map.

  Elbowing the door open, she rolled the duffel into the small foyer, dropping it and her shoulder bag as she took in her new surroundings.

  “Well...thank you, Josh...and whomever you got that number from.” Tara tried to recall the name—some college friend of Josh’s. It didn’t matter. What did matter was that this place, with its warm wood floors and modern furniture, was cheery and chic and perfect for a month’s stay. She would have to pick out a nice thank-you gift for the French teacher.

  A quick tour found the rest of the apartment much to her liking, too. The bathroom seemed antiquated with its pull-chain to flush the toilet, but the living room and the bedroom both looked out on a terrace rimmed with ivy-covered lattice work and flower pots brimming with color.

  A notebook lay prominently on the dining table. Lettering across its front spelled out the word tenant in several languages. She flipped the book open to the section labeled English. Coming to Paris had been such a quick decision that there’d been no time to study the French language in any depth. She’d hoped her two years of high school and college Spanish would help, but it hadn’t yet.

  Everyone she’d been in contact with so far had spoken at least a little English, except for Madame LeClerc at the front desk. Hand gestures had been the language that had landed Tara the key to the flat. There were a few other gestures she’d wanted to use with the awful woman, but she would have hated to get kicked out before she got moved in.

  Inside the notebook, Tara found a note of welcome, which she scanned for important information. “Oven temperature displayed in Celsius...shutters on a timer, which can be reset to your schedule...take key when you leave as the door locks automatically...terrace shared by one other flat...call if you are in need of any assistance.”