A Second Chance at Paris

by Cole McCade

  Farm roads took them to the winding lane leading to the sprawling building Celeste would always think of as home. The two-story Haverford house nestled in the cool green shade of dense pines, its tar-shingled roof stark against the white imitation-slathouse design. Behind the house the river cut the forest in two, letting in brilliant bands of sunlight.

  God, even the house was the same. The yard wasn’t as green as it had been back when she and Ophelia had tussled on the lawn and chased each other through the woods, licking the nectar from honeysuckles and stuffing themselves on wild blackberries until their fingers were stained and their tongues purple. She rubbed her chest, as if that could ease the sweet ache of memory. She used to daydream about sitting on the dock with Ion, fingers just brushing, and—

  —and she was thinking about Ion again.

  He was probably happily married, or a balding accountant with seventeen cats and no concept of personal hygiene. Either way, he likely still had no idea who she was. She didn’t want him to. Her days as Hairy Mary were over. She didn’t need reminders.

  Sometimes, nostalgia really sucked.

  Her sister pulled the Cooper into the drive and parked outside the garage. As they strong-armed the luggage from the car, Ophelia glanced at Celeste.

  “You need a ride to the airport tomorrow?”

  Before Celeste could answer, her father frowned. “Where are you going?”

  She stilled, fingers going lax on the handle of her suitcase. “Paris, Dad. I told you last week.”

  “I don’t remember.” His face set in a grim scowl, thoughts flicking rapidly behind the careful neutrality of his eyes—struggling to find that one detail, searching through the endless information catalogued in what had once been a stunning mind. “I don’t remember that at all.”

  “That’s okay,” she said gently. “I’m teaching at the Sorbonne during a conference. Remember your fellowship there? You told me about the university, and—”

  He turned his back. “I’ve never been to Paris. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Okay,” she said. “That’s okay. I’ll take you one day.”

  I promise, Dad. I’ll take you everywhere.

  But he only walked into the house, his back stiff with pride. She stood helplessly in the drive, hands hanging loose at her sides.

  Then, clutching her bag, she followed him through the door.

  Walking inside was like walking into her childhood. Ophelia hadn’t changed a thing; family pictures hung against patterned wallpaper, still the same pale butter-yellow with its subtle golden fleur-de-lis. The arched open doorframes connecting the rooms showed signs of new paint over water damage, but it was still the same flecked shade of off-white that always made her think of eggnog.

  Even her bedroom was the same. Pangs of amusement and embarrassment made her smile. Still that ridiculous purple plaid bedspread—and her troll doll collection, boy band posters, and shelf full of snow globes. The bed was as neatly made as if she’d tucked the sheets that morning…and her ceiling was still covered in stars.

  With the light on they were only raised bumps against the stucco, with that faint greenish tint of glow-in-the-dark decals. She pulled the curtains—neon purple with a mortifying collage of Lisa Frank planets, stars, and bizarre interplanetary dolphins—before flicking off the lights. The ceiling came alive with silver fire, illuminating the hundreds of tiny dots she’d placed meticulously years ago: a star chart of the galaxy, so she could find the stars and planets even when the sky was shut away. She found the red dot she’d put up for Venus, and smiled.

  “Star light, star bright…”

  She stopped. What would she wish for? What could she wish for? She thought of wishing for her father to recover, but a dozen doctors had already said they couldn’t reverse what was happening to him. Once the downward spiral began, all she could hope for was to slow it down.

  Slow it down, and make new memories to replace what he’d lost.

  And she would. One thing he’d loved about his work was the travel; each snow globe on her shelf was from a different city he’d visited. Paris. Milan. Shanghai. Bangkok. Moscow. Amsterdam. Every one a memory in glass. Every one a memory stolen—but she’d keep them for him until she could give them back. She had to find a job in Europe. One that would let her bring her father. One that paid enough that this time it would be her turn to take him on adventure after adventure, so he could rediscover the world he’d forgotten.

  “I wish I may, I wish I might…”

  She laughed. Wishing on paper stars, not even knowing what to wish for. Was it selfish to make a wish for herself?

  “…have this wish I wish tonight. I wish…I wish…” She closed her eyes and whispered the first thing that came to mind. “I wish I knew how to fall in love again, the way I did before. The way I loved Ion Blackwell, when I gave him every piece of my heart and he didn’t even know he was holding it.”

  “Hey,” her sister said.

  Celeste whirled, nearly tripping. Ophelia leaned against the doorframe, eyes troubled. Heat rushed across Celeste’s face. Had her sister overheard?

  But Ophelia only frowned, picking at her lower lip with her fingertip. “Dad’s settled in his room, looking through old photos of Mom. He’s getting worse, isn’t he?”

  “Yeah. Yeah, he is.” She sank down on her bed. “You sure you’ll be all right with him?”

  “It’s just a week.”

  Ophelia settled next to her, and leaned on her. With her hair shining like a raven’s wing and her pale, flawless skin, she was like a little doll. Growing up, Celeste had felt like the Frankenstein monster created from the pieces left after making Ophelia perfect. It had taken a long time for Celeste to grow into herself, leaving behind frizzy hair and freckled skin; longer still for her envy to turn into admiration, even if there had always been love.

  And patience, on Ophelia’s part. Even when Celeste had been a brat, her sister had always known just what to say for a heartbreak, a bad grade, a skinned knee.

  And she knew just what to say now, as she slipped her hand into Celeste’s. “He’s my dad too, Cel.”

  “I know.” She squeezed her sister’s fingers tight.

  “What about you? What’s this about some loser?”

  “Mook. Um…Mark. Mutual breakup. I’m not mentally here enough, or…something.” She shrugged. “I should give up on dating.”

  “What you should do is get your head out of the clouds. Stars. Whatever.”

  “No, what I should do is get a job.”

  Even if her job was half the problem. She loved her work the way most women loved their husbands. It’d been a long time since she’d met a guy who could bring her down to earth—or follow her into the stars.

  And by a long time, she meant never.

  Ophelia nudged her. “If you need help…”

  “I know. And I can’t.” She half-smiled. “Just as stubborn as Dad, I guess. I’ll find a job. Don’t worry.”

  “What companies are you looking at?”

  “Lockheed Martin, Boeing, SAIC…”

  “Didn’t they already reject you?”

  “In California. They might have something overseas. Maybe I’ll hook up with the scientists from CERN.” She heaved a dramatic sigh. “I’ve always had a thing for men with large hadron colliders.”

  “That thing that would’ve sucked the Earth into a black hole?”

  “Wouldn’t that have been awesome? To have been there when it happened?”

  Ophelia rolled her eyes. “That’s a no.”

  “You’re no fun.”

  “You’re so morbid.”

  “I prefer ‘cheerfully macabre.’”

  “That’s just a creative term for morbid.” Ophelia tugged her hand free and mock-punched Celeste’s arm. “You’ll be all right, Cel. You’re too smart not to be.”

  Celeste countered by pulling her sister into a hug tight enough to make Ophelia squeak. Then slim fingers clenched in the back of C
eleste’s blouse, and she closed her eyes.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  “For what?”

  “Loving me. Even when I’m a space case.”

  “That’s what sisters are for.” Ophelia pulled back, her wry smile sweet in her fey face, her eyes glistening. “I’m going to start dinner. Call you when it’s done?”

  “Sure.”

  Ophelia bounced out, brimming with enough energy to power a small nuclear reactor. Celeste didn’t know where the psychotic pixie stored it. Probably had nowhere to vent it now that she’d quit her job in investment banking, and refused to even talk about why. Just walked out with no explanation and without a care for money, penny-pincher that she was.

  Must be nice.

  She swept her room with another look. If she didn’t find any leads at the conference, she’d have to update her bedroom. At least move it into the twenty-first century, with actual adult furniture. Or, if the new job paid well enough, she might renovate the house into a summer retreat—repairing the damage of age and Louisiana weather without losing the beauty that made it home.

  Her gaze fell on her cluttered desk. Her senior yearbook sat perched atop a stack of notebooks, as if she’d dumped it all there just yesterday. She pulled the stack into her lap. Messy doodles filled her old history notebook; even a few sketches in the margins. Stick-figure Astronaut Celeste, in her rocket ship to the stars. She smiled and opened the yearbook. A few signatures littered the inside cover—Kendrick Jones, Barrett March, Giselle Houston, her little club of band kids and geeks. She flipped to rows of tiny grayscale photos: just a graph of pimples, braces, unfortunate hair, and infinitely regrettable fashion. In two weeks she’d see these people again, for her ten-year high school reunion. Mook had been her date, before the mutual thing—and as keynote speaker, she couldn’t back out.

  Show up unemployed and without a boyfriend, and she’d be Hairy Mary all over again.

  She stopped on a page so dog-eared its corners had nearly worn off. A purple highlighter heart circled one picture. Even in black and white Ion Blackwell’s eyes were luminous, more real than any photograph, bright against the swarthy shades of his skin and the wild toss of unruly black hair. The strong set of his jaw, the confidence in the line of his shoulders, the scathing intelligence in his eyes, the knowing humor in the quirk of his firm, arrogant mouth—they’d all hinted at the man he would become, while still making him the boy she’d loved. Sometimes it seemed as if she’d spent her life chasing Ion.

  Maybe it was time to stop. The Ion Blackwells of the world were daydreams, and she’d stopped dreaming when the reality of rent and student loan payments and healthcare costs set in. Besides, she was leaving tomorrow morning, and there was no Ion Blackwell in Paris. She shouldn’t be remembering boys she hadn’t spared a second thought for in years. She should be thinking about a job, a new life, and the promise she’d made to her father. Her love life wasn’t important right now.

  And maybe, deep down, she’d given up on love a long time ago.

  Like that night during a high school field trip to Paris, when Ion had turned away from her and to another girl. Lily Sorensen, she remembered. Popular. Pretty. Everything Celeste hadn’t been.

  It didn’t matter. Some things were worth more than boyfriends. Some bonds were stronger than this…primitive human mating ritual.

  Mating rituals. Next I’ll be rambling about bonobo monkeys and grunting at Katherine Heigl about tight jeans and cleavage. Stick to the stars, Cel. You’re no good with biology.

  She snorted, closed the yearbook, and tossed it under the bed. “To hell with Ion Blackwell,” she said. “Croissants and sexy accents, here I come.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  ION BLACKWELL WAS NOT A man accustomed to failure.

  He settled on a stool in the intimately lit bar on the first floor of his apartment building, and flicked two fingers at the bartender. “Devil’s Cut, pas de glace. Merci.”

  While the bartender poured two golden fingers of bourbon, Ion leaned against the bar and studied the picture window at the far end, where the distant motes of Parisian lights floated against the moonless, black-on-black skyline. The Bluetooth headset in his ear crackled with slow breaths against expectant silence.

  “Well?” he said.

  “I don’t know what you want me to say,” Drake answered.

  “Start with how you let this happen.”

  “I didn’t let anything happen,” his agent snapped. “I didn’t do the translations. I don’t even speak Farsi.”

  The bartender slid the tumbler across the bar’s polished, reflective lacquered wood. Ion passed over a few Euro notes, then growled into the headset. “Someone who did should have checked before the manuscripts shipped.”

  “I thought the publisher’s translators were reliable. Look, it’s done. We need to focus on damage control. This’ll be a public relations nightmare.”

  “Recall the books.”

  Drake made a strangled sound. “But that run was over five hundred thousand books.”

  “Don’t care.”

  “But the cost—”

  “I’ll eat the cost,” Ion said. “I don’t care about the money.”

  “I do!”

  “Then be glad I’m still paying you.”

  He lingered on the pool of melted amber in his tumbler. His reflection glared back. When he took a scouring sip, the alcoholic burn filled his mouth like smoke. Drake said nothing, his silence taut and resentful. Ion let him simmer through another sip. He’d known Drake since university; as his literary agent, the man had helped him make millions on his Violet Sparks series of young adult novels. Their friendship had weathered some ugly things—but right now their professional relationship was the one under fire.

  He set the tumbler down with a tink of glass on wood. “I don’t blame you. But this shouldn’t have happened.”

  “I know.” Drake sighed. “I can’t help blaming myself. I should have kept an eye on the foreign rights partners. Guess I’m losing my cutthroat edge. But you’re losing your mind. The Farsi print run covered…” Papers shuffled on other end of the line. “Half a million paperbacks and two hundred thousand hardcovers. Eating that could cost over a million, Blackwell. That’s just bad business.”

  “I can afford it.”

  “That’s not the point.”

  “You don’t seem to understand the point,” Ion bit off. “I won’t have my books used to spread propaganda. I won’t have my words twisted to tell girls they should sit down, shut up, and obey. That’s not what Violet Sparks is about.”

  “I know that. Just…” Drake groaned. “Let me see what I can do. This is partially on us, since we’re handling foreign rights negotiations. But I’ll see if I can get the publisher to defray some of it.”

  “Don’t.”

  “Why the ever-fuck-loving not?”

  Ion drummed his fingers against his tumbler. “Talk to the contracts manager—Marissa. There has to be a loophole. See if we can take on all translation and foreign distribution on top of rights negotiation.”

  “They won’t like that.”

  “So use that silver tongue and make them like it. That’s what you do, isn’t it?”

  “Not since college, but thanks for reminding me of my misspent youth.”

  Ion snorted. “They already gave us Africa and the Far East. Negotiating global shouldn’t be hard. We’ll source and vet linguists we can trust.”

  “You don’t pay me enough for this,” Drake muttered.

  “Give yourself a two percent raise.” Ion tossed back the rest of his bourbon, savoring the rich, mellow flavor. By the time the last drop slid down his throat, his every breath tasted like fire. He set the tumbler down and signaled for another. “Have to go.”

  “What time is it there?”

  “Nearly midnight.”

  “Do you ever sleep?”

  “Not if I can help it.” He rarely slept when brainstorming. Daylight was for the tedious minu
tiae of life—but the night was his time, when his creative fire came alive. “Call me when you’ve worked the details.”

  “Funny, not hearing a word about how book seven is coming.”

  “It’s coming. Au revoir, Drake.” He tapped the headset, ending the call, then left a few more Euros and slid off the stool, drinking slowly as he drifted toward the picture window and the sprawling view. He wasn’t ready to go upstairs just yet. Upstairs, in his penthouse flat, the blank page waited.

  The blank page, and Violet.

  His heroine. The Girl Who Would Be Everything—what the world called her, now that the movie deal had hit newsstands and the official title of the film adaptation had been announced. Drake had been elated, once the deal was inked. Ion had retained contributing rights on the script, a mandatory stipulation—something few authors managed, but he’d refused to back down in negotiations. He’d worked too hard to perfect the series to see it butchered by Hollywood’s idea of what sold to the mass market. They’d turn his quirky seventeen-year-old Girl Wonder into a sex kitten in latex.

  Not that the current clusterfuck—and the brewing media shitstorm—was any better.

  He’d started his own foreign rights company after his books had reached global popularity around the second in the series. Violet Sparks had been banned in several countries for, in the words of one article, “promoting unseemly behavior and indoctrinating impressionable girls in subversive ways.”

  For telling girls they could be anything they wanted, and didn’t have to follow the rules just because someone told them to.

  He wrote his books for girls who didn’t follow the rules. Girls like his sisters had been, wild and strong even when they’d been told to stay in their place. Girls who needed a friend, however imaginary, to remind them they were strong enough to stand up, think for themselves, make mistakes and fix them, fight back no matter the punishment. But his publisher hadn’t been able to get around the bans. The foreign rights division at Drake’s agency had no better luck. They’d said it couldn’t be done.