“You don’t even read Tom Clancy novels in English.”
He shrugged again. “I was bored. What do you want?”
“Our evil stepsister won’t let me unpack my clothes. Can I hang some things in your closet later?” At least then I wouldn’t feel like a hobo.
“Sure. Whatever,” he said, picking the book back up.
I gaped at him for several seconds. It would seem I had not only landed in a foreign country, but an alternate universe.
Camille finished getting ready moments before it was time to go, easing her mother’s anxiety slightly. Eva looked radiant in her short white dress, perfectly offset by her bouquet of red roses and white lilies. Dressed in the sophisticated gray dress I’d pulled out of the closet, Camille looked just as beautiful as her mother. Then there was me, little Sophie Brooks from Charleston, South Carolina, representing her southern roots in a pink sundress and white sandals—and feeling inadequate in so many ways compared to the two women in front of me.
Wearing gray dress slacks, Eric fidgeted with the red tie knotted at the collar of his long-sleeved white shirt. I almost mentioned that he and Camille seemed to have color coordinated their outfits, but bit my tongue. Eric had lost his apathetic mood from earlier, and the dark gleam in his eye and his clenched jaw suggested he was slightly volatile. I knew it wasn’t directed toward me, but I didn’t want to be the one to set him off.
I didn’t have time to dwell on my insecurities or the fact that everyone seemed to match but me, because we were hustled out the door and down to two waiting taxis. Eva and Camille got into the first one, and we piled into the second—Dad in the front passenger seat and Eric and me in the back.
We rode in silence, my father’s leg bouncing slightly—a telltale sign of nerves. If he was so anxious, why was he doing this? I wanted to ask him, but I didn’t want to fight. We’d spoken barely twenty words to each other the night before—and that word count was generous—making it apparent he was already tired of dealing with my attitude.
The service was held in the chapel of a centuries-old Catholic church. Eric stood in as my father’s best man, and Camille was her mother’s maid of honor. I sat on a hard wooden pew, bored and . . . hurt. My father hadn’t even found a role for me in the wedding. I wasn’t sure why I cared. Hadn’t I told Eric I wouldn’t do it even if he made me?
A photographer took photos afterward, and I learned that Eva’s sister and brother were in attendance with their spouses and children. My father worked with one of the other guests, but it seemed like most of them were Eva’s friends. It suddenly occurred to me that we were the only ones from home here for Dad. The sadness I felt for him caught me by surprise before I quickly tapped it down. There were several children ranging from preschool age to preteen, but I had trouble putting together who belonged to whom.
Since the wedding party was so small, the photos didn’t take long, and before I knew it we were being taxied off to a restaurant. I ended up in a cab with Eric and one of Eva’s friends. Dad had gone with Eva and Camille after someone reassured him my brother and I would be right behind him. Eric spent most of the ten-minute ride conversing with the woman in his broken French while I leaned my forehead against the window, staring out at the Parisian streets.
I’d never felt more alone in my life.
After we pulled up to the restaurant, I made a quick visit to the restroom. I stared at my reflection in the mirror, fighting the tears building behind my eyes.
“You will not cry over that jerk who calls himself your father,” I ordered.
But tears swam in the eyes of the girl in the mirror anyway.
I spent several minutes thinking of things that would dry my eyes, potential methods of torturing Camille Mercier ranking high on the list. When I finally got my emotions in check, I found the small private room for the dinner. What I saw there made me blink back new tears. Dad and Eva were seated together on one side of the table, and Eric and Camille were right beside them, but the lone empty chair at the table was down by Eva’s nieces and nephews at the opposite end.
My father glanced up when I walked into the room, and his eyes filled with guilt and horror when he realized where the seating arrangement had left me. He leaned close to Eva’s ear, presumably filling her in on the situation. Panic flashed in her eyes as she scanned the seats around the table.
“Sophie,” she said, standing. “We’ll move you closer.”
My father had arrived in the first taxi, and I’d arrived in the last and proceeded to spend several minutes in the restroom. In all that time, it hadn’t occurred to him to save me a seat.
I stared into his face. “I’d rather sit down here.”
He started to say something, his guilt obvious, but I ignored him and sat by the preschool-aged girl who was playing with a small doll. She spoke to me in French as I scooted in my chair, and I repeated the phrase Jenna had taught me before I left: “Je ne parle pas français.”
She looked slightly confused by this and quickly forgot about me, but the preteen boy next to me said, “I speak English.”
I offered him a smile.
He grinned, his cheeks tingeing pink. “I’m Michel. I can translate if you’d like. I need the practice.”
I didn’t really care what anyone had to say, but it beat doing nothing for the next hour or so. “Okay,” I whispered. “But I’m most interested in anything that’s said about my father or my brother and me.”
A sly grin spread across his boyish face and he winked at me conspiratorially. “So I’m James Bond,” he said in a thick French accent.
I lifted my eyebrows at the comparison. “Yeah. Exactly like that.”
Michel helped me order from the menu and then told me about the new bike he’d recently gotten for his birthday. I nodded and tried to look interested, especially since it was obvious he had a small crush on me. I wasn’t a complete ogre. Talking to Michel was better than sitting there in silent despair. Besides, he was sweet and easy to talk to.
I studied Camille out of the corner of my eye. After our encounters, I suspected she probably flew a broom all over the city instead of taking the subway, so her behavior surprised me. She spent most of her time talking to her aunt and uncle, smiling sweetly and speaking without the sharpness that edged her voice whenever she spoke to me. One of her cousins got up and wandered around the table, stopping next to Camille’s chair and asking her something I obviously didn’t understand. Camille laughed and touched her fingertip to the little girl’s nose, then pulled her onto her lap.
Maybe Eva was right. Maybe Camille and I could become friends after all. We both just needed some time to get used to all the changes.
Camille turned to face her aunt halfway down the table, and her gaze landed on mine. Her soft smile fell and her eyes turned hard as they pierced mine, making it very clear that she wasn’t having the same charitable thoughts.
Whatever. I found myself okay with that, which was uncharacteristic. I usually wanted everyone to like me.
After we ate, the waitstaff brought out a small two-tiered cake and bottles of champagne. Only the two youngest children were deemed too young to be served champagne flutes. The rest of us lifted our glasses to toast the bride and groom. I had to admit my father looked happy when he stared at his new wife. I honestly couldn’t remember him ever looking at my mother that way. That knowledge hurt worse than anything else.
“What was the toast?” I asked Michel, my curiosity getting the better of me, especially since Eva and her sister had teared up and Camille’s scowl was deeper than ever.
“My father said he hoped Aunt Eva and Camille will find the happiness they once knew.”
“Before Camille’s father died?” I asked. As ticked as I was at my dad, I couldn’t imagine how I’d handle it if I lost him forever. Sure, he lived thousands of miles away now, but at least we could talk.
“Yes. They were very happy before—oh!” Michel said, licking frosting off his fork. “Uncle Thomas is now talking
about your father’s civil service yesterday.”
I turned to the boy in confusion. “What civil service?”
“The marriage service.”
I shook my head, wondering what had gotten lost in translation. “But we just went to their marriage service.”
Michel’s mouth puckered. “No. In France, the church service is”—he struggled to find a word—“extra. Here, you must get married in the court. My uncle said it was a lucky thing the magistrate relaxed the four week bans rule.”
I took a deep breath. “Wait. One thing at a time. What are bans?”
“When a duo applies for a wedding, they post the ban. It must post four weeks before the duo can get married.”
“Four weeks? But your uncle said they relaxed the bans. So was it shorter?”
He listened for a moment and shook his head. “No. It was four weeks, but since your father is American, it should have been posted longer.”
I grabbed his arm, desperation washing over me. “You’re telling me they applied for the license four weeks ago?”
“Yes.” He nodded with earnest eyes, oblivious to my inner turmoil.
“And they were really married yesterday afternoon.” I swallowed, trying to dislodge the lump in my throat. “Everything today was superfluous.”
“Sur-per-flus?” he asked in confusion.
“Unnecessary.”
His confusion remained, but he finally seemed to understand that I was unhappy.
“Not needed,” I supplied.
“I . . .” Uncertainty wavered on his face. “No. Many Catholics do it this way.”
The walls were suddenly closing in around me. “I need to go to the restroom.” I scooted my chair out and glanced down at my father, who was deep in conversation with someone at the end of the table, but Eric’s gaze lifted to mine with a questioning look.
I shook my head and left the room, heading for the front door. I walked several feet down the sidewalk and rested my butt against the building.
He’d lied to us.
My tears broke loose, silently streaming down my face. If the bans were posted four weeks ago, that meant he’d asked Eva to marry him over a month ago. But when he called a week ago, he said he’d just proposed. Why hadn’t he told us earlier? And why hadn’t he taken us to his real wedding yesterday? We were here, so he’d willfully dis-included us.
I leaned the back of my head against the building, wondering what had happened to my previously perfect life.
“Vous allez bien?”
I turned to face a guy close to my age, standing to my right. He was a good six inches taller than my five four. He had dark, wavy hair and deep blue eyes that were filled with concern.
I wiped my face with the back of my hand, released a tiny sob, and said, “I don’t know what you said. I don’t know what anyone is saying here.” I started to cry again.
He slipped off his backpack, unzipped it, and started to dig around inside. “Are you lost?” he asked, looking into my eyes.
The kindness and worry in his voice caught me by surprise.
He handed me a tissue, and I reluctantly took it.
“It’s clean,” he said, and a smile spread across his face, lighting up his spectacular eyes.
I dabbed my face, realizing two things. One, this French guy was impossibly cute, and two, I was an ugly crier.
It really wasn’t my day.
“Define lost,” I said, then realized the context was probably lost on him. “No, I’m not lost. My father and brother are inside.”
He closed his backpack and slipped it back over his shoulder. “But you are outside crying.”
“Yeah. I’m having a bad day.” I shook my head and laughed. “Make that a bad year.”
“Then let us hope your year gets better after now.”
I looked into his eyes and smiled at his slightly twisted English. For the first time since I’d gotten off the plane, I felt like I might not hate everything about this trip. “Yeah. Let’s hope so.”
His smile seemed to set loose a swarm of butterflies in my stomach. There was no better way to describe it.
“Are you here on holiday?”
Even the reminder of why I was really here couldn’t steal my sudden joy. “Kind of.”
A phone dinged, and he pulled his out of his front jeans pocket to check the screen. His grin faded. “I must go.”
“Oh.”
His phone rang this time and he answered, irritation wrinkling his forehead. He responded to the person on the other line in terse French. After he hung up, he gave me an apologetic look and started to speak, but the restaurant door flew open and Eric stomped out.
Why did Paris seem to breed so much irritation? Maybe it was something in the water, like fluoride.
“Dad’s flipping out,” Eric moaned. “He thought you took off.” He grabbed my arm and tugged.
I jerked loose. “Like I could. I don’t have any money, and I don’t even freaking know where he lives.”
The French guy backed up several feet, looking torn.
I turned to Eric as he said, “You need to come back inside now.”
“I will in a minute. First I need to talk to—” But when I glanced to the spot where the French guy had been standing, he was gone.
Leave it to my dad to steal this too.
CHAPTER Six
DAD APOLOGIZED FOR my having to sit at the opposite end of the table. Camille had taken my sudden departure as her own cue to bolt, so Eva insisted I sit by them for the rest of the night. Probably to make sure I didn’t escape again.
We went back to Eva’s apartment, but all four of us were subdued. It had to suck for Dad and Eva to spend their wedding night with two unhappy teenagers—and a third who had run off to heaven knew where. But they were the ones who had chosen to have a rush wedding.
I had a hard time falling asleep in my new bed, but was selfishly thankful Camille never came home. With any luck at all, she’d be gone the rest of the summer.
But I should have known luck wouldn’t be on my side. She was back the next morning, as sullen as ever. And I thought I was being dramatic. Which I was by lunchtime. Whenever I was stressed, I played the piano. In some ways, my father could be credited for the tremendous progress I’d made over the last year. But I was more stressed than ever, and now I had no outlet.
My not-so-gentle request slipped out minutes after we sat down for lunch in the dining room. “When will I be able to play a piano?”
“Piano?” Camille spat out like she’d eaten a rotten potato, dropping her fork with a clang.
Eva murmured something in French—her tone suggested it was a warning. My new stepmother turned to me with a soft but tired smile. “Your father says you are quite good and want to study music at uni.” She cast a pointed glance at Camille.
I nodded. “Yes.”
“Then we must get you a piano to practice. We will see to it tomorrow.”
Camille bolted to a standing position, her chair screeching across the parquet floor, speaking in a stream of rapid French.
Eva’s eyes narrowed, and her responses sounded just as angry.
My gaze shot to Eric, who was watching the entire scene in wide-eyed silence as Camille turned and left the room and then the apartment, slamming the front door on her way out.
My new stepsister had a love of slamming doors.
Eva took a deep breath, but her eyes were filled with tears. “I apologize for my daughter’s behavior.” She forced a soft smile and focused on her plate. Then she rose from her seat. “The car will arrive soon to take us to the airport to pick up Eric’s friend.”
My father stood and took her into his arms. She rested her cheek on his shoulder, her eyes closed. “Eric and I can do it. You stay and get some rest.”
“Merci,” she whispered, a tear falling down her cheek.
Guilt oozed in, catching me by surprise. Despite everything, I didn’t want to upset Eva. If she had been a friend’s mother, I would have i
nstantly loved her. But it wasn’t like I was some spoiled kid insisting on a pony. I couldn’t go all summer without practice if I wanted to get that scholarship.
Confused by my conflicting emotions, I picked up my plate and Camille’s and took them to the kitchen. I had just turned on the sink to rinse them when Eric came in with the rest of the dishes. Neither of us said anything, but I could tell he was unsettled too. He never volunteered to help clean up at home.
After Dad and Eric left, I swallowed my rising excitement and nervousness about Dane’s impending arrival and hid in my room. I tried to Skype my mom on my laptop, but my timing was off and she was on her way to work. We talked for a few minutes, and I lied through my teeth and told her everything was great. I wanted to tell her the truth—I’d intended to—but the worry in her eyes stopped me. She’d been happy, especially over the last six months, then even more so when she started dating Mark back in April. She’d moved on, and obviously so had Dad. So why couldn’t I?
The night before I’d left to come to Paris, she’d come into my room and told me I didn’t have to be mad at my dad on her account. That she liked her new life. I had planned to ask her if Eric was right and she really had sent us here so she could go to the beach with her boyfriend, but I chickened out. I couldn’t deal with any more drama.
A couple hours later, I heard voices in the hallway and left my room to investigate. Dane was sitting on one sofa with Eric, and Dad and Eva sat on the one across from it.
Dane’s face popped up when I entered the room, and a smile spread across his face. “Hey, Sophie.”
My insides did a little dance. Maybe Jenna was right. Maybe I stood a shot with him after all. Back home he never would have smiled at me like that, let alone said hello.
I sat in one of the armchairs in front of the fireplace and watched him as he answered Eva’s questions. The way his Adam’s apple bobbed when he talked. The cowlick on the right side of his forehead that pushed his dark blond hair away from his face while the rest fell forward. How his gray eyes brightened when my father started talking about his job and what he was doing.
Eric caught me staring at his friend, and his eyes narrowed in warning. He knew about my secret crush, but Dane barely gave me the time of day at home.
One Paris Summer (Blink) Page 4