Chasing Paris

by Jen Carter

  Amy’s throat felt as though it was closing up. She leaned over and hugged Will.

  “Thank you,” she choked out.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  PARIS

  A

  my looked at the Paris guidebook for the hundredth time as she rode the Metro toward what the book said was her destination: Abbesses Station. She had never been good with maps—or subways—and she was sure that at some point she would be lost on this trip. She just didn’t want her first memory of Paris to include being lost. Abbesses Station, she said in her head. Abbesses, Abbesses, Abbesses Station. Anxiously, she watched each stop come and go, wondering how much longer—and what she’d find when she got there.

  But soon her stop was in sight: Abbesses Station.

  Once she stepped off the Metro and emerged from the metro, her fears melted. She was in the heart of Montmartre—she knew it by the crowds, the shops, the music, the laughter. It wasn’t what she imagined while reading Eva’s Words. It was better. It vibrated with an energy she had never felt.

  Amy dropped the guidebook to her side and wandered through the crowd. She was there—where Eva and Lizzie and Billy had spent the summer of 1955—where the story began. She found her way to a church set atop a tall staircase, and although she wondered the name of the church, she didn’t look it up. She climbed the stairs alongside the other tourists, taking in its grandeur, excited to see it as it stood without knowing its history or its name. She told herself that she would look up its history later—after she had absorbed the city’s joyful chaos. For now, all she wanted was to feel that new, vibrating energy and life of the city.

  She found her way to the rows of artists, all chatting and drawing and enjoying the warmth of the day. She wondered where Billy’s artist station had been so many years before. She eyed a spot she thought would be perfect for him—off in the shade, toward the end of the row. From there, Lizzie certainly would have been able to spot him from afar, bring him coffee from the nearby café, and watch the tourists as they came and went.

  She walked up and down the cobblestone back streets and staircases, taking in the buildings, the shops, the cars, and the people whose everyday lives were centered in this very place. She sensed that even if it weren’t the high tourist season there would be a distinct spirit in the air that existed nowhere but Montmartre.

  Time slipped away. Without realizing it, Amy had spent an hour meandering through this corner of Paris. Looking at her watch, she thought it wise to find the building whose address filled the memo line of Billy’s check before she let the entire day slip away.

  She found the street without much trouble. It was an off-shoot of Montmartre’s bustling center—a downhill slope punctuated with short staircases and rows of trees. As she moved down the hill, looking for the address that matched Billy’s instructions, the buzz and flurry of the place dissipated into a warm, welcoming residential area.

  Halfway down the hill, she found herself standing before a building with the correct address. She walked to the front door, checked the address one more time, and then knocked.

  Moments later, a short, round, wrinkly woman answered the door.

  “Mademoiselle Amy?” the woman said with a wide smile. “Is it you?” When Amy nodded, the smile widened further than Amy thought possible, and the woman ushered her in, wrapping her chubby arms around Amy’s neck. “Welcome,” she said, pulling away from Amy and taking the traveling backpack off her shoulders. “Please come in and sit. Billy called and explained that you were coming. We—my husband and I—we are so happy that you are here. I am Marie. It is so nice to meet you.”

  She led Amy into the house and directed her toward the living room where two vintage, velvet couches stood opposite each other with a coffee table separating them.

  “Please, sit.”

  “Thank you.” Amy sat on the far side of the closest couch and smiled at her hostess.

  “I have been told that you are Lizzie’s granddaughter, yes?” Marie sat down on the opposite end of the couch.

  Amy nodded.

  “And you are here to learn about her time in Paris?”

  Amy nodded again, but then she stopped herself as Marie’s words sunk in. “Oh, actually I think I know about Lizzie’s time in Paris. Mr. Strath said that I could find out about her time in New York if I came here.”

  “Ah, I see,” Marie said. “I only know of her time in Paris. Perhaps we are talking about the same thing but giving it different names. I can tell you my story, and then we can decide if my memories are what you are truly looking for. Yes?”

  Amy smiled. “Thank you, Marie.”

  “Okay. And so I begin.” Marie turned her body to face Amy and folded her hands in her lap. “My husband was an artist here in Montmartre alongside Billy so many years ago. It was a wonderful time, especially in the spring and the summer when our little section of the city fills with people and art—and especially money.” Marie stopped and chuckled. “My husband Jean and Billy were such wonderful friends. We often spent evenings with Billy, sharing dinner and drinks and stories. He was a fascinating man with so much to say. We enjoyed spending time with him very much.

  “But as we know, very few things in life are forever, and one day Billy’s stay in Montmartre came to an end. We were able to keep in touch with him through letters sporadically, but we were never certain of where he was because he did not stay in one place for very long. He would send us letters from wonderful places such as, what do you say?” She furrowed her eyebrows at Amy. “Arizona? Or New Jersey?”

  Amy nodded at her.

  “Well, wherever he was—we would quickly write a letter back and hope that he would still be there by the time it arrived.

  “Years after Billy left, he called our home. It was the first time he called. He said that he had a friend who needed a place to stay in Paris for awhile, and he asked if she could stay with us. The person he spoke of was our Lizzie. We told Billy that we would be happy to take in any friend he sent our way. So we traveled to Charles de Gaulle Airport on the day she arrived, and we waited for that airplane from New York. We knew her the second she stepped through the gate. She was an angel, just as Billy had described.

  “So Jean and I took our Lizzie home. Even from the first day, we loved her. She was a good soul, and we knew it just from looking at her.” Marie paused, choosing her words carefully. “She was a good soul, but a lost soul. We did not know why she was lost, but just as we knew she was good, we knew she was lost. Jean and I would exchange glances from time to time, wondering how we would help her find her way.

  “Lizzie spent many nights with us, talking about her dreams of acting and becoming famous. Jean and I encouraged her to pursue her acting, and we promised that she could stay as long as she desired. She was so very talented, and we wanted her to shine as we knew she could. As it turned out, she very quickly secured a role in a local play. She told us that she never much liked her name, so her stage name became Lyla deTroyes. Jean and I went to the play almost every night.” Marie chuckled, remembering. “We must not have had much else to do,” she sighed, still laughing, softer this time. “We were just so proud of her. And soon after she began acting in that play, someone in the audience asked her to audition for a commercial, which she then was hired to do. From there, she was hired for more and more commercials. Soon we were seeing our Lizzie’s face on television during our favorite television programs.

  “And then the day came when she was offered a role on a television series. She took it, of course, and she became quite famous. We were happy for her, but at the same time we were quite sad because it was time for her to move on. She had enough money to buy her own apartment, and she said that she did not want to disturb our lives any longer. We never felt disturbed, but we could not convince her.”

  The front door of Marie’s apartment opened, and a tall, thin man walked in. As soon as he saw Amy and Marie on the couch, he smiled.

  “Ah, Jean, I am so glad you are here,” Marie sai
d, beckoning her husband with a wave. “This is Amy. She is Lizzie’s granddaughter—the girl that Billy sent to us.”

  Jean neared the couch and offered Amy his hand. “I am so happy to meet you. I hope Marie is telling our story well.” After shaking Amy’s hand, he leaned down to Marie and kissed her forehead. “I hope you have had a good day,” he said to his wife.

  “It has been very good,” she said, taking his hand and squeezing it.

  “Good. I am going to wash up,” he said, nodding to Amy and backing out of the room. “It was very nice meeting you. I will see you in a bit.”

  Marie watched her husband walk toward the back room, and Amy watched Marie. She couldn’t help but feel as though Marie and Jean were the characters in a familiar story—a sweet, kind love story.

  “Marie,” Amy said, inching a bit closer to her host as though the ground she gained would help her hear more clearly. “So Lizzie came to you from New York? And this must have been somewhere around 1967?”

  Marie nodded.

  “Do you know how long she was in New York before she came to you?”

  Marie shrugged. “Perhaps at one time I did know, but now I am unsure. I do not believe it was very long. Days, maybe.”

  “And she became a famous actress?” Amy asked.

  “In France, yes. Of course in the United States, no. No one in the United States cares about French television. But to us, Lizzie was a star. Everyone knew Lyla deTroyes, and Jean and I were so proud to be friends of hers.” Marie paused before going on. “But in all the time that Jean and I spent with Lizzie, we never found out what had troubled her so. We never found out what brought her to Paris in the first place. As the years passed, we forgot that she came to us out of sadness. She had so much joy. It was hard to imagine that she could harbor any sorrow.

  “But then one day it came out. Lizzie had been very secretive about her past, yes, but a reporter—a terrible, meddling reporter—he traced her roots back to the United States. And one night as Jean, Lizzie, and I shared dinner and listened to the news on television as we often did, we saw the sadness of Lizzie’s life unfolding. The reporter told of a family in California and a fire that had killed her husband.

  “I will never forget it. She crumbled in Jean’s arms.” Marie shook her head, the sorrow of the memory clouding her face. “Lizzie had not known. She did not know of the fire or that her husband’s life had been taken by it. And this, she did not know, had happened shortly after she arrived in Paris—years before.”

  Amy leaned back into the couch, wishing she had her timeline in front of her. Lizzie had sent a letter to Eva about heading to New York just as she was stepping on a plane. Just a couple days later when Eva received the letter, she rushed to the Mills’ house to find it burned to the ground. Lizzie could have already been in Paris by that point according to Marie. She had not been in New York with Billy. Private investigators weren’t looking in the right place.

  “That night,” Marie continued, “we drove her to her apartment where she gathered her things, and then we took her back to Charles de Gaulle, the same place we picked her up years earlier. She flew back to California immediately.

  “Jean and I did not know when she would return. We did not know if it would be better for her to come back or to stay with her family. It was clear that she had great difficulties in her life and that we knew very little of them. We did not wish to pry. We only wanted the best for her. We just did not know what it was.

  “But our Lizzie did return. And when she did, she threw herself into her work. For years she worked and worked. Her face was all over town, and no one bothered her about the tragedies in the past. I am unsure how she was able to escape the stare of the media, but they left her alone.

  “For many, many years, she remained one of our closest friends. But one day, she came to us and asked that we watch her apartment while she was away on a trip. We wondered how long she would be gone. She said she did not know.” Marie smiled. “And I must tell you, we’ve been looking after her apartment ever since.” Marie looked around the room, raising her palms as though presenting it to Amy. “We are in her apartment here, now. This lovely place was your grandmother’s.” The smile on Marie’s face faded. “We got word recently that she had passed away. Our hearts were so heavy at the news. In her will, she gave this home to us, and we feel so blessed for it. But we would give it back in an instant if we could see our Lizzie just one more time.”

  Amy nodded, letting Marie’s words sink in.

  “I am sure that you have so many questions,” Marie said. “I just told you a very long story and there is a lot to take in. Would you like to have some time to yourself to think?”

  Amy nodded again. “Marie, I understand so much more now. Thank you. It would probably do me good to think for a bit.”

  “You have come from very far. Why don’t you take a shower or a nap—or both? I will have a meal waiting for you when you are ready. And we can talk more then if you like.”

  Amy was suddenly aware of how tired she felt. A shower and a nap—and food—sounded wonderful. “Thank you, Marie. You’re so kind.” She stood, and for a split second wondered if she should hug Marie for her graciousness. Before she could decide, Marie had wrapped her arms around Amy’s shoulders and was guiding her toward a room in the back of the house.

  THIRTY-NINE

  T

  hree hours later, Amy emerged from Marie and Jean’s flat, feeling refreshed after a short nap and her first meal in France. She roamed around Montmartre, thinking about the story Marie had told her. Somehow, it made her feel both anxious and relieved at the same time.

  She sat down in a café, ordered a cup of coffee, and computed the time difference between Paris and California. When her coffee came, she picked up her phone and called Will, hoping eight o’clock in the morning wasn’t too early for his phone to ring.

  “Hey,” he answered. “I didn’t expect to hear from you so soon. How was your flight?”

  “Good—it was good. Uneventful. But so much has happened since I got here. I’ve been dying to call you to talk about it, but I didn’t want to wake you up.”

  “You can call me anytime. What did you find out?”

  “Lizzie wasn’t in New York with Billy. She was here in Paris. Well, first she went to New York, but right after that, Billy turned around and sent her to Paris. She barely spent any time with Billy at all. She was here. He sent her here to get away from her life in California.”

  “No kidding,” Will said. “So the private investigators that Eva hired in New York weren’t looking in the right place.”

  “Exactly. And get this: while she was here, she became a famous French actress. She changed her name, though, practically erasing all traces of Elizabeth Hathaway. Her stage name was Lyla deTroyes.”

  Amy could hear typing on the other end of the line. She imagined Will sitting at a computer. “Lyla deTroyes. Let’s check her out on the internet,” he said. “Is deTroyes spelled like the Medieval writer Chretien deTroyes?”

  Amy scrunched up her nose, thinking. “I don’t know. Probably.”

  She could hear more typing on Will’s end. A moment later, he said, “Aha, there she is. Lyla deTroyes, famous French actress.” He chuckled. “Wow, who knew? She’s beautiful—no surprise, though. I figured Billy would have good taste. She has your eyes.”

  “Well, she became a famous actress here and didn’t find out about the fire until a reporter dug up her past years later and broadcast it all over the evening news. She immediately went to California, but she didn’t stay long. She ended up coming back here and threw herself into her work. And that was it. Paris was her home all that time.”

  Will blew out a deep breath. “I don’t know what I expected you to find in Paris, but I know it wasn’t that.”

  “I’m sort of relieved. Lizzie didn’t trade in her family for Billy. She didn’t choose him over her daughters. In the end, it wasn’t about him as much as it was about following her dreams. H
e may have gotten her to Paris so that she could follow those dreams, but that’s where it ended with him.” She paused. A knot was beginning to form in her stomach. “But even so, I think what makes me sad is that her family was torn to pieces because she decided to pursue her aspirations to become an actress. Maybe she didn’t trade in her daughters for Billy, but she still traded in her daughters—for her dreams.”

  Will thought a moment before responding. “I think that’s sort of backward. Her family wasn’t torn apart because she ran off to become an actress. Her family was torn apart because she tried to deny that dream for so long. She didn’t follow it in the first place, and she didn’t do it the right way. From the beginning she cut corners. She didn’t want to finish college, so she ran off to Los Angeles. Then she got angry when her parents caught her, and she lashed out by making bad decisions. She married John because she was impatient and mad that Billy wasn’t going to swoop in and save her. She should have just focused on what she wanted, been patient, and put in the hard work. Marrying John didn’t solve any problems. It complicated everything because it led to a family that was then affected by her bad decisions.”

  Amy took in Will’s words and stirred her coffee slowly. “If she hadn’t married John, she wouldn’t have had any children.”

  “Right. And life with John was like—it was like—” Will searched for words. “It was like being haunted by a shadow. She wanted to squash anything that reminded her of Billy, and that included her dreams of becoming an actress. She hastily got married and tried to start over. She was so hurt by Billy that starting over seemed like the only way to heal. But those dreams couldn’t be ignored—maybe she squashed most of them, but the shadow remained. You and I both have read enough to know why—nothing that comes from a strong passion can truly die. There are themes of that in just about all great literature. So her dreams just haunted her in shadow form until she couldn’t take it anymore.”