by Pres Maxson
“Oh my god, Janie.” I muttered, staring back off into the sunrise. “If they find out we have it, they’re going to kill us. I love you, but you realize they’re going to come after us for this, right?”
“Peukington will never believe Pistache,” she remarked casually. “And, if they do believe that he can’t remember anything, they will probably think he lost the coin. He’s might very well be unconscious somewhere right now. Seriously.”
“I suppose.”
“When I saw him down that fish crap, that’s when I decided to do it. What an idiot.”
My mind raced. “I don’t know. Let’s say they do trace it back to us somehow. What do we do?”
“We won’t have it.”
“Honey,” I laughed as I looked at the coin sitting in her hand. “How do you figure that? You want to sell it? They’ll know.”
“No, I don’t think we should sell it.”
“What then? Do you want to give it to a museum?”
“Not exactly,” she said. “If we do that, Peukington winds up claiming it. He’s rich and pretty famous. He’ll just wind up getting it right back.”
“So what’s wrong with that?!”
“Pete, he literally tried to murder you. I don’t want him to ever have it back.”
“Well now I’m a little worried that he’s going to try again.”
“No listen,” she said trying to calm me. “I’ve thought this through.”
“Oh that’s good to know,” I said as my forehead immediately felt hot. “You’ve thought it through, have you? You’ve taken the last sleepless, drunk hour to really give it some solid rational thought?”
“Take it easy, Pete. Very funny.”
“Okay,” I brainstormed. “So we just leave it sitting somewhere maybe. We just walk away.”
“Why would we do that?” Janie asked.
“I don’t know. I’m thinking we’ll just totally separate ourselves from it. We’ll forget all about it.”
Janie nodded as she considered it, finally maybe coming around.
“Besides,” I continued, “someone new could maybe find it. That might be a nice next step in the life of the coin. After all, these kinds of histories never stop. It’s only chapters that end.”
“I guess,” Janie said. “Only problem with that is they might also try to appraise it or sell it. That route probably finds its way back to Peukington, too.”
“So what then? I don’t get it. What’s your plan?”
“Okay, hear me out,” she began. “I am going to let it be your choice. The coin is my gift to you. But, I think you should consider throwing it off this bridge.”
“Are you serious?! What good does that do?!” I exclaimed.
Janie grabbed my hand and thrust the coin into my palm. The energy in her eyes was obvious.
“You can do two things,” she said. “If you want to keep it, I’m with you until the end. Maybe nothing happens. Maybe it just sits in a box on our bookshelf, and we can tell this story to other couples when they come over. The big punch line will be that we have the coin sitting right in our house. No one will believe us, but we’ll know it happened, and it will be perfect.”
I liked that idea but quickly found myself running through alternative scenarios.
“And maybe Peukington shows up, finds it, and his guys murder us,” I offered.
“Maybe. Who knows? But that’s pretty unlikely if Pistache can’t remember anything. As far as Peukington and Renard are concerned, they watched him leave with it. Pistache will have a hard time selling his story to them.”
I sighed. “Okay, what’s my other option?”
“Stick with me on this. You can hold this piece of Paris in your hand right here for the last time. This thing has seen kings, revolution, an emperor, wars, and all that stuff. With this little time-traveler, you know that you were part of pure magic, woven into its story forever. Then, after you’ve taken a minute to think about all of that, you can aim for the sunrise, send it out over the water, and return it to the city that really owned it the whole time anyway.”
I looked down at the coin as she spoke.
“We can still tell the story, Pete. It’ll end even better this way.”
“But it’s worth so much,” I stammered, conflicted.
“What more do we really need?”
She was right. As we stood on the Pont des Arts, I pictured letting it fly into the exploding Parisian morning and seeing it shimmer one last time before losing it in the bright orange. We might not even hear it hit the water.
Janie smiled at me, waiting. I loved the tone of her skin in the sunrise light. Her beautiful look conveyed that signature mischief that had brought us to this moment, and I was reminded again exactly why I’d fallen for her in the first place. Sensing my thoughts, she touched my forearm, still smiling.
I turned to the water, now overwhelmingly bright with the morning sun. Breathing deeply, my fist closed around the coin. I wound up, even then still not knowing if I’d truly ever be able to let it go.
Acknowledgements
This story took nearly two years to complete. I have enjoyed writing it and feel truly lucky that you, the reader, picked it up. Thank you for reading this book.
Mollie, your imprint is all over this from our exploration of Paris’ nightlife to the coffee mug you gave me with the horses on it from which I sip as I write this. Thank you for everything you do.
Cece, I hope your little brother or sister will be just as perfect as you.
Jennifer Maxson (Mom), thank you for editing an early draft of this work. Your ideas were extremely valuable and helped me shape this into what it is now.
Lauren Lastowka, thank you so much for taking the time to go over the final draft the way you did. You polished this in a way I couldn’t have. Can’t wait to do some hanging out hopefully soon!
Thank you Jennifer Law and Griffen Tull for the cover design. You exceeded my hopes. Jennifer, you’re a true pro.
Speaking of the cover, thank you to Jeff Smith and the bartenders at Brockway Pub in Carmel, Indiana. Your bar is awesome. Jeff, I think you have a career in hand modeling.
I’d like to thank the following family and friends, who all lent fresh eyes to this text when mine were extremely tired: Brad Koselke, Jay and Brynn Pendrak, Richard Hewett, and Dan Maloney. Thank you all for listening to me talk about this story, then actually taking time to read it. Your insights were super valuable.
Lastly, I must mention the memory of my aunt, Caryl Lloyd, who passed away during the process of writing this book. An educator, scholar, and author, she introduced me to Paris when I was 16. My love for the city is evident now, and I owe her much of my affection for France in general. I hope she would have enjoyed this work.
About the Author
Pres Maxson is an award-winning author.
Actually, let’s think about this for a second. Award winning? Yeah, I guess. Let’s look at the lifetime tally: Pres was a 1990 Presidential Physical Fitness Award recipient in elementary school; was the all-time record holder briefly in the Mighty Munchkin Practice Sweepstakes for minutes spent practicing piano in high school; was crowned “Mr. DHS” in 1997; won the essay contest naming his father “University of Iowa Dad of the Year 2002”; was named to the Hawkeye Marching Band’s Rank of Honor in back-to-back years; was named Employee of the Month in 2008 somewhere that has since gone out of business; and, most recently, in 2014 was recognized by his niece and nephews with an actual plaque for “ongoing dedication and unwavering pursuit of excellence in the field of awesomeness.” Sure, there were others along the way, but those are the greatest hits. So technically, yes. Pres Maxson is award-winning.
But, even the term “author” is loosely used for Pres. Sure, he’s written stuff. Most notably, he has a degree in English from the great University of Iowa, and he’s written professional copy for the last decade. But also: a smattering of unpublished little stories, blog posts, unanswered tweets at various public figures, hu
ndreds of song lyrics, and countless grocery lists. He is into haiku also, having written thousands of low-quality poems (and four really okay ones) in the last two decades.
So sure, Pres Maxson is an award-winning author. Let’s go ahead with that.