One Paris Summer (Blink)

by Denise Grover Swank

  We spent about an hour in the building. I got an audio tour for the sole purpose of avoiding conversation with Thomas. I felt guilty, but I didn’t want to encourage him.

  When we left, Marine said something that got Camille and Sarah excited. The guys didn’t seem to balk at the suggestion, so we all headed across the street.

  “Where are we going?” I asked my shadow.

  “To Hermé’s. They sell macaroons there.”

  I’d had macaroons before in Charleston, but I had to admit I was curious. I’d heard French macaroons were worlds better than their American counterparts. So I followed along willingly enough—not that I had a choice.

  The macaroons were being sold on the first floor of what looked like a department store. The display case was small, but filled with a wide assortment of choices. The prices were ridiculously expensive.

  “Do you want a macaroon?” Thomas asked as we watched the three girls make their choices.

  I didn’t have any money, and I wasn’t about to ask my brother for some.

  “I’ll pay for them.”

  I gasped. “Oh, Thomas. I can’t let you do that.”

  “Have you had French macaroons before?”

  “No, but . . .”

  “What kinds would you like?” When I started to protest, he held up his hand. “I’m buying macaroons, so you might as well tell me what you want. Otherwise, you might end up getting a flavor you don’t like.”

  “You’re relentless, aren’t you?”

  He laughed. “I have no idea what that means.”

  “It means you won’t leave me alone until I say yes.”

  His grin spread across his face. “Then yes. You will find I am very relentless.”

  I requested only three flavors—lemon, chocolate, and raspberry. He ordered several for himself and offered me the open box when the clerk handed it to him. I picked the lemon macaroon first and took a small bite, surprised by the delicate texture. The crust crushed in with only a small amount of pressure.

  “Do you like it?” he asked.

  This macaroon wasn’t like any macaroon I’d ever tasted back home. In fact, I decided the imposters from Charleston should be ashamed. “This is delicious.” Then I took another small bite, intending to savor every morsel. “Thank you.”

  “I’m happy to give you your first French macaroons.”

  Guilt washed over me. I felt like I was two-timing Mathieu, which was ridiculous. I hadn’t done anything wrong, and besides, it wasn’t like we were boyfriend and girlfriend. But somehow I knew the connection we shared was too special to dismiss. It wasn’t right to let Thomas think something could happen between us.

  “Thomas,” I said, my heart pounding in my chest. The last thing I wanted to do was hurt him. “I feel like I should be honest with you about something.”

  A strange look crossed his face.

  What was I going to tell him? “I really like you, but I have a boyfriend back home,” was out of my mouth before I gave it coherent thought. Oh crap. Why had I said that? One slip from my brother and Thomas would catch me in a lie. But it was too late now.

  “Oh.” Disappointment filled his eyes before he looked down.

  “I hope you’ll still want to spend time with me.”

  He studied me for a moment, then gave me a hesitant smile. “Why wouldn’t I spend time with you? We’re friends, non?”

  I pushed out a huge breath. “Yes. I really want to be your friend.”

  “Then nothing has changed. Now eat another macaroon.” He held out the box, and I took the raspberry one, grateful that I now had two friends in Paris. Never in a million years would I have expected that, let alone that both of them would be guys.

  I was definitely out of my element.

  CHAPTER Twenty-Four

  THE REST OF the week progressed in much the same way. I spent my mornings with Mathieu and my afternoons with Eric, Dane, Camille, and her friends even though the outings were now optional. It was harder and harder to leave Mathieu when Eric stopped by the apartment to get me. And Thomas and I were becoming better friends now that I’d set up a boundary line between us.

  But my evenings were filled with texts—from Jenna and from Mathieu. Jenna’s were easy to explain, but Mathieu’s were harder to hide. My family wasn’t used to me having a phone, so I drew curious looks from them whenever I pulled it out to read my screen. I was terrified I’d get caught.

  So I started sleeping on the sofa.

  This upset Eva after the first few nights. “You have a perfectly good bed, Sophie. Why would you sleep on the sofa?”

  “I’m used to having my own room at home,” I said. “I like it out here.”

  After everyone went to bed, I would lie on the sofa, and Mathieu and I would text until late at night.

  We texted about everything and nothing. But the more we texted, the closer we got.

  At dinner on the Thursday night of our third week in Paris, Dad looked at Eva and then said, “We’ve decided to go away on Saturday.”

  Eric’s jaw dropped. “You’re leaving us alone?”

  Dad blinked and then shook his head. “No. Of course not. We’re all going away.”

  “Where?” Camille demanded.

  Eva gave her a warning look. “Versailles.”

  “We won’t all fit in a car,” Camille said, then narrowed her eyes at me. “I suggest we leave Sophie here.”

  “Fine with me.”

  Eva pushed out a heavy sigh. “No one is staying home. We’re taking the train.”

  My stepsister mumbled her protest in French, but our parents didn’t change their mind.

  When we left Saturday morning, Eva and Dad’s chipper attitudes were a sharp contrast to Camille’s hostile countenance. Eric and I actually wanted to go, but Dane looked torn between getting excited and trying to placate Camille. I had no idea why she was so angry other than we were actually beginning to look like a family.

  Lucky for us, we could catch the train from our Metro station and take it the rest of the way to Versailles, about a forty-five minute trip. From there it was a short walk from the station to the palace. It was ornate and impressive, but the lines were incredibly long. We toured the inside and then walked around the massive gardens, staying until early evening.

  On Sunday, Dad surprised us by announcing he had to go to work, and he was taking Eric and me with him.

  After breakfast we took the Metro to Sainte-Chapelle. The church wasn’t easily accessible like Notre Dame. It was behind the walls of several buildings, and the public had to wait in line to get to the outside of the church. Lucky for us, Dad could bypass the line. We went through the employee entrance, which eventually brought us to the courtyard surrounding the church.

  While Eric had already been there, this was my first time. Scaffolding was erected next to a section of the exterior on the south side of the medieval Gothic church.

  “The stained glass in the chapel has been in the process of renovation for over forty years,” Dad said, walking toward the scaffolding. “And that’s what’s getting the attention from the outside world. But we’re hard at work on the structure as well, particularly the gargoyles.” He looked down at me. “Do you remember the definition of a gargoyle, Sophie?”

  “I’m not seven years old, Dad.”

  “So you forgot?”

  I sighed. “A gargoyle is a drain spout. A chimera is purely decorative.”

  He grinned. “You remembered.”

  “More like I couldn’t forget it.” His happiness faded, and I had to admit it had been a pretty mean response. “Sorry, Dad.”

  He nodded. “I’m coming late to the project, but there’s plenty to do. Weather and pollution haven’t been kind to the gargoyles, and quite a few of them need major restoration. The irony is that the gargoyles were designed to drain water away from the building, but water is their biggest source of decay.” He looked directly at me. “Sometimes what we see as our purpose hurts us in the end.”

>   Was he not-so-subtly talking about me? “What are you trying to say, Dad? Just spit it out.”

  “My job is to restore structures from the past. They’ve been beat up and worn down, and I help bring them back to a state similar to what they were before—similar but not exactly the original.” He took a breath. “This is my dream. I’ve wanted to do this since I was a little boy, but look what I’ve given up to have it. You.” He turned to Eric. “And you. I gave up both of you to pursue my dream.”

  Eric and I remained silent, waiting to see where he would go with this.

  “My work here is important, but it’s not as important as you.” He swallowed. “I didn’t think we’d immediately pick up where we left off when you came here this summer, but I had hoped we’d be at a better place than we are now. I underestimated how hurt you would be.”

  “Are you serious?” I asked, trying to keep my voice down so we wouldn’t attract the attention of the tourists around us. “You barely talked to us for almost a year. Did you really think nothing would change while you were gone?”

  I expected Eric to tell me to shut up, but he surprised me by nodding in agreement.

  “No,” Dad said. “Of course not. And while I claim full responsibility for my behavior over the last year, I’m trying to fix it now. I’m trying to fix us. Look at this gargoyle.” He pointed to a piece of stone sticking out of the building about thirty feet over our heads. “It’s broken and worn and neglected. It looks hopeless.” He walked down to the end of the building. “But this one looks nearly new.” He pointed to a more detailed statue. Its edges were sharp, its curves defined. “This statue was worse than the one over there.”

  “What’s your point, Dad?” Eric demanded.

  “My point is that a lot of time and effort went into restoring that gargoyle, and not just from me. Others worked on it as well, and together, we made it nearly as good as new. If I put that much effort into this inanimate object, how much more effort do you think I’m willing to put into my own kids? I was so hurt for six months I couldn’t stop and think about how this was affecting you guys, but I know I was selfish and screwed up. I want to fix it.”

  “You had to drag us all the way down here to tell us that?” Eric asked.

  Dad grinned. “No, I brought you all the way down here because there’s a place around the corner that makes great crêpes. I figured we could stop here on the way.”

  Eric shook his head, grinning.

  “I’m not giving up on you guys. Please don’t give up on me.”

  CHAPTER Twenty-Five

  AFTER TWO DAYS apart, I was eager to see Mathieu on Monday morning. He seemed to feel the same way, judging from the way he gathered me into his arms as soon as I walked out the door.

  “Mathieu,” I said, pulling away after several seconds. “What about Eric?”

  “I’ve missed you, Sophie. I don’t care about Eric.”

  I didn’t either. But ultimately, Mathieu did care. “Let’s go around the block. Then you can kiss me again.”

  He grabbed my hand and tugged me down the street and around the corner. He looked down at me, smiling softly. “I’ve missed seeing your face.”

  “I’ve missed seeing yours more.”

  He kissed me again, but it was soft and gentle. “Let’s get breakfast.”

  “Okay.”

  We followed our new routine—sitting outside with our breakfast and talking. Since we hadn’t seen each other for two days, we stayed longer than usual. Mathieu seemed on edge, but when I asked him if something was wrong, he just shook his head. “No,” he said, looking down at his phone, “but it’s already ten o’clock, Sophie. We need to go.”

  I reluctantly agreed, wondering if I’d done or said something wrong as we walked the rest of the way to his apartment. Once inside, I got to work like I usually did.

  My Rachmaninoff piece was almost put together, and I was feeling the pressure to start the next piece Miss Lori had given me.

  I was currently stuck on a measure I knew wasn’t correct. I’d been listening to a recording of it on my laptop, and though I could tell it was off, I couldn’t quite figure out how to fix it. I’d been playing the two tied measures over and over for nearly a half hour. It had to be driving Mathieu and Etienne crazy, but they were too nice to say anything.

  “Play that section with a 5/3 time rhythm,” a feminine voice said behind me.

  I sucked in a breath and spun around to face the woman standing three feet behind me. She wore a gray skirt paired with a pale blue silk blouse. Her dark hair was pulled back into a twist, pinned to the back of her head. She had a kind face, but her eyes were intense as she glanced from me to the sheet music and back again.

  “Tie the first note of the right hand sextuplet to the D in the left hand quintuplet.”

  My heart began to race. This woman was Mathieu’s mother. I could see the resemblance.

  She made a shooing motion toward the piano. “Go ahead. Try it.”

  I took her advice and tied the two notes, then played the rest slowly.

  “Yes, that’s it, but watch the time with that quarter note.”

  I repeated the measure, then stopped and glanced back at her.

  “Don’t stop, mon petit chou. Continuez-vous.”

  I started with the troublesome area, then continued on, trying to forget she was behind me, listening.

  When I finished, I put my hands in my lap and waited.

  There was the sound of clicking heels, and then she stood beside me at the piano. “Mathieu was correct. You are quite talented.”

  I blushed. “Thank you.”

  “As you must have presumed, I’m Mathieu’s mother, Madeline Rousseau.” She extended her hand, and I stood and shook it.

  “Bonjour, Madame Rousseau. Enchanté. Je m’appelle Sophie Brooks.”

  She laughed, then said in English, “Mathieu said he’d been teaching you le français. Très bien.”

  “Merci.” My face flushed even more. “Thank you for letting me use your piano.”

  “It’s nothing.” She waved her hand as if swatting a fly. “I’m sure he’s told you, I’m in charge of the lycée program at the Conservatoire de Seine. We’ve had two openings come up for the fall semester, which starts the first week of September. We’re hosting invitation-only auditions the second week of August. I would be happy to have you audition for our program.”

  My breath stuck in my chest. “What?” I choked out.

  She gave me a warm smile. “You will need a sonata, an etude, and a piece from the romantic period. This Rachmaninoff piece will work for the romantic piece if you can get it cleaned up in time. You’re interested, I presume?”

  Was I? I was thrilled she’d invited me to audition—Mathieu and I had discussed the possibility, but I’d never once let myself believe it was a possibility. Still, I couldn’t actually move to Paris, could I? What about my mother? But I found myself nodding. “Oui. Merci.”

  “Très bien. Then I’ll send you more information and arrange an audition time for you.” She turned, and I realized Mathieu had been standing behind her the whole time. He was smiling, but he looked worried too. He’d already suggested I audition for her program. Had he changed his mind?

  Madame Rousseau greeted him in French and then kissed his cheeks.

  I glanced down at my phone to check the time. I had forty-five minutes left, but how could I concentrate on my music when Mathieu’s mother was here listening? And my brain was still trying to process the fact that I’d agreed to audition for the conservatoire. What other pieces would I play? I only had a month to prepare.

  Madame Rousseau took Mathieu into his stepfather’s office and shut the door, allaying my concern. She would still be able to hear me play, of course, but at least she wasn’t watching me. I set a timer on my phone since Mathieu seemed busy with his mother. To my surprise, they were still in the office when my timer went off. I packed up my music, closed up the piano, and headed for the door, not wanting to dist
urb them.

  But the office door opened, and Mathieu’s mother stood in the opening. “Sophie, you’ll have to skip practice tomorrow. Our family has plans for Bastille Day.”

  “Oh.” My father hadn’t mentioned anything about celebrating. “Thank you for letting me come at all.”

  “De rein.”

  Eric was waiting for me on the sidewalk, and he looked confused when he didn’t see Mathieu behind me. “Where’s your shadow, Mit-shoe?”

  I rolled my eyes when I realized he was talking about Mathieu. “His mother’s home.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. They’ve spent at least a half hour or so in his stepfather’s office.”

  “So he’s in trouble?” He looked entirely too happy about that.

  I had to admit I was worried that he might be. But what if his mother had found out his deep, dark secret? Would that make Camille’s threat null and void? I decided to tell Eric the exciting news. “His mother is in charge of a special program at the conservatoire where she teaches. She walked in and heard me playing.” I turned to him and grabbed his arm. “Eric. She invited me to audition.”

  He came to a halt. “Wait. Slow down. Tell me about this program.”

  I explained it to him and he watched me with a surprisingly neutral expression. “You hate Paris.”

  “I don’t hate it anymore.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Because of him.”

  I shrugged. “I guess he’s part of it.”

  “So you’re doing this for him? You’re going to uproot your entire life to stay here in Paris with him—and he won’t even tell his friends about you? Sophie, don’t let this guy hurt you like that.”

  When he put it that way, it sounded so wrong. Was Mathieu really the reason I wanted to audition? I had admitted he was at least part of it. And in a way, Eric was right. The secret had begun to chafe, especially when I was hanging out with Mathieu’s friends. My white lie about a boyfriend back home had bit me in the butt. Thomas had begun asking questions, and although I tried to evade most of them, I’d had to tell a few more white lies to cover my first big one.

  I didn’t want to lie anymore.