Chasing Paris

by Jen Carter

  Will thought of the notebook that he had found in her room. “It just popped into my head.”

  “I used to understand what Milton meant when he wrote that.” She rested her head on a pile of books. “What hath night to do with sleep? Nothing, I once thought. I could stay up forever. But now, night has everything to do with sleep.” She closed her eyes.

  “That sounds like something you’d write about,” Will said.

  Her eyebrows rose over still-closed eyes. “Really? Maybe.” She looked at him and forced a smile. “A long time ago, maybe. So what do we do now?”

  Will looked toward the patio door, which had remained open from the time that the sun warmed the sky. Cool air wafted through the screen. “Let’s go to Monterey tomorrow and ask Billy about Lizzie. You should come with me to take the books back.”

  “Tomorrow is Friday. I work.”

  “Take a sick day. Don’t go to work tomorrow.”

  Amy closed her eyes again. “I can’t take a sick day.”

  Will got up and closed the patio door. “Why not?”

  “Why not? I work.”

  He locked the door and returned to the kitchen table. “So? Amy, seriously. So what?”

  Amy rubbed her eyes again. “I hate my job,” she muttered.

  “Good. Then you’ll come.”

  Will nodded toward the books strewn about on the table. “Let’s get these boxed up.” He grabbed two books and put them in the closest box.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Amy said. “I’ll do it tonight. You’ve helped me so much already. I can do this.”

  “You sure?”

  “Positive.”

  Amy stood, and they walked to the front door.

  “Why don’t I come and get you around nine o’clock tomorrow?” Will opened the door and waited for a response.

  She nodded.

  He reached out and patted the side of her shoulder. “Tomorrow is going to be a good day. And going to see Billy Strath is definitely a good reason to skip work. See you later.” With that, he turned and headed toward his truck.

  Amy smiled. “Thanks,” she called after him. She closed the door. Just as she turned toward the kitchen, a knock stopped her. She turned back and opened the door, finding Will on the front porch.

  “Hey,” he said. “Don’t forget to lock this.” He tapped on the doorframe.

  Before she could respond, he was on his way back down the walkway.

  “Okay, thanks,” she called after him.

  He waved over his shoulder. She closed and locked the door, smiling.

  After putting all the books away and stashing the boxes in the hall closet, she went to the family room where she turned on the television and lay down on the couch. She closed her eyes.

  The darkness behind her eyes gave way to an image of the Eiffel Tower. She stood in front of it, looking at the top, knowing that she somehow had to get up there. How? She walked around it, over and over, looking for an entrance and finding none. Desperation quickened her heartbeat as she realized that she had to get up there somehow. Something was at the top—something she needed…

  A noise came from the front door. Amy lifted her head toward the sound, but once she remembered that Miles was supposed to come over, she dropped it back to the couch.

  “Hey,” she said as he entered the room. She pinched the inside corners of her eyes toward her nose, trying to wake up.

  “Hey there,” he replied, sitting down by her feet. “Were you asleep?”

  She looked at the clock on the television cable box. “Yeah, I think so. When I laid down here, some silly sitcom was on, but now it’s some late night talk show.”

  “You look tired.” Miles reached for the remote and pointed it toward the television. “Any good guests on the show tonight?”

  “I don’t know. You can change it.”

  Miles flipped through the channels, finally settling on an old Saturday Night Live skit. Amy felt herself drifting off, but every time the audience on television laughed, she found herself surfacing to consciousness. She wondered if Miles was watching the show or dozing as she was. From where she was lying, she could only see his profile, and it appeared he was chuckling along with the audience—not nearly as tired as she.

  “Miles?” she yawned, after being roused from sleep yet again, “are you happy?”

  “Sure,” he said, his eyes remaining on the television. “Are you?”

  “I don’t like my job.” She yawned again. “I really, really don’t like my job.”

  “You have a great job.”

  “I don’t like it. It’s not what I want to do.”

  “Find something else then.”

  Amy closed her eyes again, wondering if it was just that simple. “But you’re happy? With life in general?”

  “Yeah. Things are good. Easy. Right?”

  Amy nodded, her eyes still closed. “Right.”

  ***

  As soon as Will left Amy’s house, he pulled out his cell phone and made a call. It rang only once before being answered.

  “Now, why in the world would you call me this late when we aren’t even in school?” Kim asked, skipping the usual hello. “It must mean good news.”

  Will laughed. “There’s really no other reason to call—except for bad news, I guess.”

  “True. So, do you have an update for me about the girl with the book? Have you chased your way across the Grecian Urn to find her?”

  “Good memory, Kim,” he said, surprised that she remembered the Grecian Urn reference from Amy’s book. “It’s been something like that. Actually, it’s taken a turn you’d never expect.”

  As he drove home, he told her about everything that had happened since leaving Los Angeles—about meeting Amy at the coffee shop, about her discovery of a long-lost grandmother, and about the family history they were uncovering together. When he finished, she didn’t say anything right away.

  “Kim, are you there? Did I bore you to death?”

  “No, not at all. It’s just that you’re right—I never expected this. Wow. So,” she continued, slower now, “what do you think of Amy?”

  “Well, she has a boyfriend. It doesn’t matter what I think of her.”

  Again Kim didn’t answer right away.

  “Tell me more about her,” she finally said.

  “She’s got blond hair and green eyes, and she’s probably as tall as—”

  “No, that’s not what I mean. Tell me why you volunteered to help find Lizzie. What was it about Amy that made you do it?”

  Will had been thinking about that very question for awhile. He didn’t often engage in self-reflection, but maybe it was time. Maybe talking about it would help him understand it better himself.

  “Honestly?” he asked.

  “Of course.”

  “Okay.” He took a deep breath. “Well, when I first met her, if you could call it that, she was just words on a page. And I think what got to me was that she explained how Jocelyn felt when we broke up. She said what Jocelyn never could say. It reminded me of why I wanted to get my act together this year. I didn’t want to be that impetuous, thoughtless guy anymore. All it got me was mediocre grades and a bad break up. And all I ever did was hurt myself and hurt others. I know I’m not entirely there yet, but I’ve been working on it.”

  He paused, thinking. Kim said uh-huh to fill the silence and let him know she was listening.

  “Then when I met her, she was so embarrassed by everything she had written in the margins of the book—she was so embarrassed that I had read it. And that made me realize why Jocelyn couldn’t have told me what she was really feeling. Who wants to be that vulnerable in front of someone so thoughtless and reckless?” He paused again, letting his own question sink in. “Anyway, there’s just something really honest about Amy and the way she expresses herself.”

  “Which is ironic since she’s lying to her boyfriend about this whole thing.”

  “No kidding.”

  “Hmmm.”
<
br />   “And when Chris showed up saying that it was time to go, I just didn’t want to leave. I didn’t know enough about her yet. I mean, I knew enough to know that I wanted to find out more. I probably would have made up any excuse to stay. Then an excuse presented itself through her grandmother, so I took it.”

  “Do you know enough about her now?”

  “Well, can you ever really know enough about someone?”

  “Probably not. Too bad she has a boyfriend.”

  April’s words from earlier that evening rung in Will’s head. Don’t shatter her.

  “Yeah,” he said, “but I’m not worried about that. I like being around her, and I like trying to figure out what happened in her family, but I’m not going to get between her and her boyfriend. Like I said, I don’t want to be that guy anymore.”

  Will turned into his parents’ neighborhood and slowed down.

  “Hey Kim, I’m almost home, so I better get going.”

  “Sure. Thanks for updating me. So far your summer has been much more interesting than mine. Let me know what happens after you go to Monterey.”

  “I will.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  T

  he doorbell rang exactly at nine o’clock. When Amy answered it, Will was not standing on the porch as she expected. He was down a couple yards on the walkway, his arms extended outward, his lips curved into a great smile.

  “It’s a beautiful day,” he said. “I’d suggest a picnic, but we’ve got better things to do.” He dropped his arms and walked toward the doorway. “Are you ready to go get the rest of the story from Billy?” As he neared Amy, the gleam in his eyes brightened. “Aren’t you excited?” He reached out and squeezed her shoulders for a second before walking past her and into the house.

  “I think I’m more nervous than excited,” she said, following Will.

  “Don’t be. There’s no point in that. This is nothing but exciting. Where are the boxes?”

  “In the hall closet. Miles came over last night, so I had to hide them.”

  As Will opened the closet door and grabbed the first box, he smirked. “Sounds like a pain. It’s too bad that he doesn’t understand what you’re doing.”

  Amy didn’t answer.

  They loaded the boxes into the back of Will’s truck and pulled out of the driveway. Amy’s stomach flipped and flopped as they passed rows of houses, which melted into rows of shops, which melted into the road leading to the freeway. She couldn’t find her voice—although even if she had, no words seemed worth speaking.

  “Why are you so quiet?” Will asked once they were on the freeway. He glanced at her. “Hey, did you get directions? Where’re we going?”

  “You’re going the right way,” Amy said, keeping her eyes on the road. We’ve got about twenty miles before you need to worry about getting on Highway 1. I’ll let you know.” She looked out the window.

  “What’s wrong?” Will asked. “Are you really that nervous?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe? It seems silly, but I guess I am.”

  “That’s okay. It’s not every day that you take your estranged grandmother’s possessions to her long-lost boyfriend and interrogate him about events from over fifty years ago. Let’s talk about something else then.” He merged into the far left lane to maneuver around a line of cars going sixty-five miles an hour. “So, Professor Hollings told me that you were going into journalism—not marketing. What happened with that?”

  Amy put her elbow on the window ledge and rested her head against her fist. She stared out the window. “Oh. Nothing. That didn’t work out.”

  “What do you mean it didn’t work out? You’re, what, twenty-three? You have to give a career like ten years before you can determine whether it’s working out. Not a couple of months.”

  Amy looked at Will and frowned. “What?”

  “You can’t give up on something so quickly. You know what that comes from? Giving up, I mean? It comes from being too hard on yourself.”

  Amy looked back out the window. “I’m not sure what to say about that.”

  “I didn’t mean to sound rude. I’m sorry. That came out wrong. But like when you went to New York—”

  “I never told Professor Hollings that I was going to New York.” Amy turned toward Will. “How did you know that I went to New York?”

  Will cringed. “Oops.”

  “What?”

  “Okay, your sister told me. Yesterday, when you were late getting home.”

  Amy turned forward again. A moment of silence lapsed before she spoke. “What did she tell you?”

  “Nothing.” When Amy didn’t respond, he continued, “Okay, not nothing. She didn’t say anything bad, though. She just said that you and your ex-boyfriend planned to go to New York, but then you broke up and didn’t know if you should go, but then you decided to go anyway. But then you decided you didn’t like it—so then you came back.”

  All the blood seemed to drain from Amy’s head. She grabbed her purse from where it rested at her feet and pulled out her cell phone. She texted April: Why did you tell Will about Jason?

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” she said, dropping her phone back into her purse.

  “Okay. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “I’m not upset.” Before Will could reply she continued, “It’s just that she shouldn’t have told you about Jason or New York or whatever else she told you. It’s not her story to tell.”

  “She’s your sister. We were just talking.” He glanced at her before changing lanes to move around another slow driver. “And she wasn’t telling me to be gossipy. She was telling me because she loves you. She just wants you—”

  “I can’t believe her.” Amy pressed two fingers into each of her temples and closed her eyes. “I’m not—”

  “Amy, stop. It’s okay.” Will wasn’t sure how to dig himself out of the hole he was in, so he just kept talking. “She didn’t say anything that made you look bad. She was just making conversation. You even said that she doesn’t always think before she speaks, and clearly I don’t, either. It’s not a big deal, and plus, we’re on our way to do something pretty exciting. Let’s just think about that. Let’s forget the last sixty seconds, okay?”

  They sat in silence as Will continued driving. Amy tried to push the heat off her face by taking deep breaths inconspicuously. And she tried to figure out why she was so angry, yet she couldn’t.

  “Are you going to ignore me the whole way there?” Will said after a few minutes. “Come on, don’t be like that. I can’t stand silence.” He reached over and pushed her shoulder. “This is supposed to be fun, remember?”

  Amy forced a half smile, keeping her eyes on the road. “You need to start getting over to the right.”

  ***

  Will slowed as he pulled onto a thin, winding road leading to Billy’s house. Amy stared out the window, seeing more and more ocean as the road grew steeper and steeper. Soon she realized the house they approached sat atop a cliff—almost entirely surrounded by water crashing against rocks below. Upon arriving at the circular driveway, complete with a fountain in its center, she wondered if they had mistakenly gone to a hotel rather than Billy’s house. She halfway expected a valet to appear between the great white columns on either side of the front door and whisk their vehicle away.

  “You ready?” Will asked, throwing the truck into park and reaching for his door handle.

  Amy nodded. Taking a deep breath, she opened her door and stepped out.

  The front door was elaborately engraved and sounded heavy as Amy knocked on it. When it opened, a small, wrinkled woman stood behind it. “Yes?” she asked without smiling.

  “Hello. I have a delivery for Mr. Strath,” Amy said. “Some boxes of books.” She searched the woman’s face for a sign of recognition.

  “Is he expecting you?”

  “Well, he knows there were some books left to him,” Amy said. “May I have a word with him?”

  The woman opened
the door wider, inviting them in. Amy stepped inside.

  “I’ll go get the boxes,” Will said.

  Amy nodded, walking behind the woman. Dread settled in her stomach. She turned back to Will and suddenly heard herself saying, “I think I should talk to him by myself.”

  He turned and saluted her as though saying anything you want.

  The hallway was wide and long. On either side of it were rows of closed doors, and between doors, leather chairs lined the walls, looking starkly black against the white paint and the sunshine flowing through skylights. It ended with a winding staircase.

  The woman led Amy upstairs and into a small room with a hardwood floor and velvet furniture. There, the woman told her to wait. Amy sat down in a chair and examined the paintings on the walls. They reminded her of Monet, but she knew they weren’t Monet. She wondered if Billy had painted them—or if his artist friends from Montmartre had painted them. She tried to remember the name of the artist who had told Billy about Lizzie the first day they met, but before the name struck her, the woman was back and asking Amy to follow her into another room.

  It was a library—a library bigger than the bookstore in Los Gatos. Books lined the walls from floor to ceiling, and toward the back of the room was a desk. Behind it sat a gray, unsmiling man. And behind him stood a wall of windows.

  “Hello,” Amy said walking into the room. She stopped a few paces in and looked around herself. She stifled the urge to say wow. Then she continued into the room and stopped by the empty chair at the edge of the desk. Through the wall of windows she could see the ocean waving at her, and she told herself not to let the beauty sweep her off task.

  “My name is Amy Winthrow. I’m Elizabeth Hathaway’s granddaughter.” She sat down, knowing she hadn’t been invited but needing to—the icy look on the man’s face made her legs shaky. “I know that you said you didn’t care about the books that Lizzie left you—”