Paris Rose

by Dawn Douglas

  He slammed the car door and entered the kitchen through the garage, pulling a beer from the fridge and popping the top, then realizing he didn’t really feel like it. He felt slightly sick, in fact. Grimacing, he took a determined slug, slid open the patio doors, and ventured outside.

  The silence that greeted him felt ominous. There was no explosion of barks, no music drifting from her side of the fence. He couldn’t resist peering into her back yard, and experienced a tug of unease at the emptiness of it. The reclining lawn chair that had been left out on the patio for weeks was gone.

  An unexpected panic darted through Nick. She couldn’t have left already—where the hell was she?

  Slowly, feeling suddenly old, he retreated indoors. She couldn’t really be gone. The doorbell rang, and he rushed to open it, for some reason sure it would be her. His sister stood on the doorstep, looking at him gravely.

  “What happened, Nick?” she demanded, brushing past him and coming inside.

  “What do you mean?” he asked a little shakily.

  “I couldn’t believe it when I brought Kieran by to say thanks for the cake and a Realtor was banging a For Sale sign into the lawn,” Angie said.

  “Did he say where she’d gone?” Nick asked, wishing he didn’t care.

  His sister nodded. “Paris.”

  He sank slowly into a kitchen chair. Somehow he’d always felt she might return to the city where she’d spent most of her life. She loved it. They used to talk about going there together one day.

  “I just couldn’t believe it,” Angie said. “I called her on my cell, and she answered, said she couldn’t talk much as she was about to board the plane. What the hell happened between you two?”

  “I’m...not sure,” he said weakly.

  Angie flopped down beside him on a kitchen chair. “Want to talk about it?” Her hand reached out across the table and touched his.

  Stupidly, Nick felt a hard lump in his throat. “I can’t.”

  “Maybe it’s her you need to be talking to,” she said softly.

  “It’s too late,” he muttered.

  “But you can’t go on like this.”

  He shook his head. “Like what?”

  “You have been impossible to be around since the divorce,” Angie said. “Look, Nick, you have a choice here. You can go on being a miserable, angry asshole, or you can go after your wife and figure out a way to make things work.”

  “After what happened—”

  “She turned to someone else for a bit of comfort because you turned into a zombie,” Angie said. “Just as you always have when you’re hurt or pissed off. You can’t do that when you’re married.”

  “So it was my fault?”

  His sister rolled her eyes. “I’ve got to get back to the kids. Will you be okay?”

  “Of course,” he said, walking her to the door.

  “Why don’t you go to Paris?” Angie said. “It isn’t that far.”

  Nick didn’t respond. Life wasn’t like one of the romantic comedies his sister loved to watch, where love problems and misunderstandings were hilariously solved in ninety minutes, and the whole family, including an elderly, arthritic granny, boogied away at a fairytale wedding.

  “I don’t really think you’re an asshole,” Angie said, suddenly turning and giving him a hug. “I worry about you. We all do.”

  “I know,” he said.

  That night, Nick readied himself for bed as he always had since his divorce. He showered with the radio on, even though he didn’t listen to it. He just needed the noise. Lucy had been a chatterbox, right up until the minute they’d switched off the lamp and kissed goodnight. Without her, the silence seemed unbearable. The king-sized bed they once shared was like a vast empty ocean, so Nick let business journals and newspapers pile up on her side now.

  He switched off the lamp, and the darkness and silence seemed to press in on him from every side. He was a man who came home to an empty house each night, drank a little too much beer, and hung on to his self-righteous anger as if it were something precious. He carefully planned his business and financial future because the part of his life that mattered most had gone spinning madly out of control.

  Nick liked problems that had solutions. He liked columns of figures that could be neatly dealt with and dilemmas that could be sorted out with a little creative brainstorming. But when the baby Lucy had been carrying died, there’d been no answers, no solutions. The doctor simply shrugged and told them these things happened sometimes. Lucy wanted to talk about it, to dream about their child that would never be born, to ask why this had happened to them. But he’d had no answers, and there hadn’t been a thing he could do to make things turn out right. Grief cracked them apart. Nick closed his eyes, knowing she wouldn’t be back.

  ****

  A Realtor brought prospective buyers to view the property next door over the following weeks. Nick watched them come and go, wondering who his new neighbors might be. It didn’t really matter, he supposed. Summer faded into fall. Kieran started kindergarten, and Rosie sprouted her first tooth. Leaves drifted into Nick’s yard, a bright golden carpet he raked up without noticing their beauty.

  Even though he didn’t want to, he thought about her living her new life in Paris, baking cakes and running around with Dexter, getting over her ex-husband if she hadn’t already, meeting some guy and having kids, growing old with some stranger, lighting up somebody else’s life.

  He dreamed of her one morning, just as his body was preparing to wake. She was lying in the bed beside him, smiling, her expression sweet and patient. Nick blinked at her in amazement.

  “How did you get in here?” he said, thrilled, reaching out.

  “I’m always here. Didn’t you know that?” she grinned.

  He woke to find he had dribbled slightly on the pillow. The bed was empty, except for a pile of crumpled newspapers and magazines. Nick thought of Lucy’s words, and considered the truth in them. In a way, she was always here. No matter how much he painted the walls or rearranged the furniture, he couldn’t ever quite manage to chase her away. She haunted the house, just as she haunted his dreams. And groaning, Nick realized it was time for him to give up.

  ****

  Lucy sat in the front pew of a crowded sixteenth-century Parisian church, worrying about profiteroles. Had she made enough? Since yesterday morning she’d been whipping up mini beef Wellingtons and tiny raspberry muffins, grating chocolate and arranging delicacies on plates for Jean-Luc’s wedding to Anita, an American socialite ten years his senior. For the past week, guests had been pouring in from the States, and Lucy suddenly found herself helping with accommodation, currency, language difficulties, and transportation for Anita’s large family, in addition to devising a menu for the reception.

  Trying to smother a yawn, she glanced around the church. The dim interior of the ancient building was lit up with hundreds of tiny white fairy lights, each giving off an ethereal glow. Lucy sighed, fighting off memories of her own wedding day to Nick. The ceremony was held in a small church, witnessed by his family and a few friends. Predictably, her parents hadn’t been able to make it. Nick had held her hand, slid the ring on her finger, held her gaze with a look of such love tears filled her eyes. She’d felt so beautiful, and so sure only happiness awaited her.

  Three months had passed since she fled Meadowlark Drive, saying a final, brutal goodbye to her fantasy of a future with Nick. Lucy had spent the time since trying to invent a new life for herself as the busy manager of La Maison Rose, one of Jean-Luc’s restaurants. She’d acquired a tiny ground floor apartment and as soon as his quarantine period was over, Dexter would join her.

  She yawned again, and then sat up straight as the wedding march began and Anita began to glide slowly up the aisle on her father’s arm. Approving murmurs rose up as the guests drank in the sight of the beautiful bride, resplendent in a tasteful, simple white gown. She was radiant. Lucy pasted a happy smile on her face and turned to face the front of the church. Don�
��t think of the past, she told herself firmly, and repeated the words over and over like a mantra as the ceremony began.

  ****

  “Hello?” Nick yelled, banging on the locked doors of La Maison Rose. “Bonjour?”

  Frustrated, he peered through the glass windows, waving wildly to attract the attention of the people he could see moving around in the kitchen at the back of the building. They glanced up at him and then quickly away, shaking their heads and frowning as if he were nuts.

  “Bonjour!” Nick bellowed, his throat growing slightly hoarse. He’d been travelling nonstop for two days, changing planes once, and then doing his best to figure out the Metro, Paris’s underground train system. It had taken him ages to hail a taxi to La Maison Rose, where Lucy’s old boss at Biscuits and Berries informed him his ex-wife was now working. He felt dirty and rumpled and tired.

  Finally, a very wrinkly old lady in a black dress opened the door and glared at him. “Closed!” she snapped, indicating the sign on the door.

  “I’m sorry,” Nick said. “But I need to speak to Lucy Rawlinson. She works here, right?”

  The old lady nodded and replied in a thick French accent. “Mademoiselle Lucy, yes, she work ’ere.”

  Finally, he was getting somewhere, Nick thought, beaming. “May I speak to her?”

  “She is at church, at wedding.”

  “She’s at a wedding?”

  “Jean-Luc, ’e ’as wedding today.”

  Nick’s heart went crashing down into his shoes.

  The old lady smiled happily. “Jean-Luc, ’e marry American woman.”

  “Oh, God,” Nick whispered.

  “You are very late, you must ’urry!” she chided him, and went out into the street, surprisingly quick on her feet, and hailed a taxi.

  It screeched to a halt, and numbly, Nick climbed inside as the old lady gave the driver instructions. The taxi took off, whipping at an alarming pace through the bumpy, narrow streets, and he understood vaguely that he’d been mistaken for a confused wedding guest. He was on his way to Lucy’s wedding to Jean-Luc. He’d lost her. He’d come all this way only to find it really was too late.

  Despair settled over him, not just for himself, but for Lucy. She was making a bad mistake, he knew that much. This was all wrong for her, he was sure of it. She didn’t love Jean-Luc. He was pretty sure she loved him, in spite of the fact that he’d trampled all over her heart and behaved like a prize moron.

  “Could you go a little faster?” he asked the driver, and then lurched sharply as the taxi swerved around a corner.

  Determination took the place of despair. Even if she’d already tied the knot with Mr. Pastry Chef, he’d talk her into getting a divorce and coming home with him, where she belonged. They’d already wasted so much time, and he knew that was largely his fault. His ego had been badly bruised and he’d hung on to his anger, refusing to listen to Lucy, hell-bent on sticking to his guns and living life without the woman he loved. But the days meant nothing without her; they were just hours to be lived through, devoid of meaning or laughter. Well, he’d damn well had enough.

  The taxi stopped suddenly, and Nick almost shot through the windshield. He began to exit but was stopped by an indignant cry from the driver. Reaching into his pocket, Nick drew out a wad of cash and handed it over, then bounded up the steps of the church and burst inside.

  It was crowded with people, applauding and smiling toward the couple at the altar, and Nick realized he was moments too late. Lucy was married.

  “No!” he yelled, his voice raw with grief. “I can’t let you do this!”

  A sudden hush fell over the church as everyone turned to stare at him. A startled Jean-Luc whirled around.

  And then, very slowly, it dawned on Nick that the buxom blonde gazing wide-eyed at him from Jean-Luc’s side was not Lucy. The bride had an enormous bosom and elaborate blonde curls. He didn’t know who the hell she was, but she wasn’t Lucy. All around him, whispers started up and fingers pointed.

  “Oh, shit,” Nick said. “I—I’m so sorry. Sorry, everyone. Um, carry on.”

  And he turned and hurried out of the church with about two hundred pairs of horrified eyes glued to his back, feeling like the biggest asshole on the face of the earth.

  ****

  Lucy fell into a gentle doze as Jean-Luc and Anita made their vows, and then sleepily opened her eyes at a spatter of applause from the congregation and realized the ceremony was over. The thought of returning to her cozy little apartment for a nap was very appealing, but she was expected at the reception.­­

  Suddenly the sound of footsteps rushing up the aisle disturbed the sweetly tranquil atmosphere inside the church. There were horrified whispers as a man shouted. Lucy sat up sharply and gasped in shock, covering her mouth with one hand.

  It was Nick.

  A tired-looking, slightly gaunt Nick, very badly in need of a shave, gaping in confusion at Anita. He seemed to realize he’d made a mistake and a horrified look came over his face as he apologized and spun around. Lucy was galvanized into action, but her progress forward was impeded by rows of knees and feet and handbags.

  “Excuse me,” she said frantically, over and over. “I’m sorry, excuse me.”

  Finally, she burst free of the pew and raced up the aisle and out of the church. From the top of the steps, she scanned the street as waiting photographers looked up at her in confusion. She spotted Nick, just turning the corner, and screamed his name, then tottered down the steps in her high heels.

  Lucy had wanted to look both pretty and professional today, and so she’d teamed dark green dress pants with a floral top and heels. The chilly autumn air raised gooseflesh on her arms as she ran, her heart pounding wildly. It began to rain. She reached the corner, turned, and excitement surged through her as he came into view.

  Jubilation ran through her veins as Lucy clattered down the cobbled street, her cheeks turning pink with the cold. Nick wanted them to be together. He’d decided he couldn’t live without her. That had to be it.

  She was gaining on him in spite of the agonizing pain shooting through her feet and ankles. Six inch heels were definitely not designed for frantic chases after ex-husbands on cobbled streets. She yelled his name again and saw him hesitate before stopping in his tracks and starting to turn. And at that moment, Lucy’s left foot wobbled treacherously, and she helplessly lurched forward, crashing to the ground.

  The impact knocked the wind from her, and she lay quite still on the wet cobblestones for several moments before her body began registering its hurt, and she moaned faintly, trying to sit up. There was blood on her hand, and as her foot moved, Lucy sobbed out loud with pain. A small crowd began to gather, and a woman tried to help her to stand, at which point Lucy’s sob of pain turned into a stifled scream. She was lowered to the ground again and sat there, as around her the crowd offered advice and comments and questions. All Lucy wanted to do was howl, and not from the pain in her ankle. She bowed her head, tears beginning to fill her eyes.

  Suddenly the crowd began to part, and she looked up. Nick knelt beside her.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I think I’ve broken my leg,” she said pitifully. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  Carefully, he removed her shoe, and frowned. “You’ve twisted your ankle. It’s pretty swollen.”

  “Did you think I was marrying Jean-Luc? Is that why you burst into the church?”

  “Everyone, the situation is under control,” Nick addressed the crowd. “Give her some air, please.”

  The onlookers began to disperse.

  “Please tell me what’s going on,” Lucy said, as Nick began to scoop her into his arms.

  “Grab your shoes,” he said, struggling to his feet. “God, have you gained weight?”

  “Either put me down or talk to me,” Lucy said. “I’m serious.”

  Nick looked at her. “Isn’t it obvious what’s happening?”

  “I’d hate to reach the wrong conclusion agai
n.”

  “I have been traveling for two solid days,” he replied. “I haven’t slept, eaten, or showered in all that time because, quite simply, Lucy, I can’t live without you.”

  She went still, staring up at him.

  “Taxi!” he yelled, and one came to a halt beside them. Nick bundled her inside and climbed in beside her, then looked confused when the driver asked for a destination. Lucy gave the address of her apartment. She was stunned, her heart pounding in shock, the throbbing agony in her ankle all but forgotten. The driver took off, and when Nick pulled her close, Lucy realized she was shivering.

  “Are you cold?”

  “I think I may be in shock,” she said.

  “Shall we try again?” he took her hand. “I promise that this time, I’ll listen to your worries and fears, just as I did to your hopes and dreams. I won’t let you down again.”

  “I’m so sorry about what I did—”

  He shushed her. “You’ve already said that a thousand times.”

  Lucy bit her lip, hardly daring to believe this was happening. He was really here. She was sitting on his lap, and his arms were around her, strong and sure. He loved her after all.

  “So what I wanted to ask was if you’d be interested in coming home with me,” he said, looking deep into her eyes. “I thought we could spend the rest of our lives loving each other and raising kids—that sort of thing.”

  Lucy wanted to say something beautiful, words Nick would remember forever, that would seal the moment they found each other again. But all she could do was nod, and melt into his arms. Nick brought his lips down tenderly, telling her everything she needed to know. And she responded, her kiss deep and yielding, her heart opening wide, realizing words weren’t necessary after all.

  ****

  Eighteen months later

  As he smelled bacon, Dexter looked up hopefully, then let out a single, loud bark. Nick scowled down at him. “What did I tell you about that?”

  Dexter looked chastened.

  “Good,” Nick said, and dropped a scrap of bacon on the kitchen floor.