Up the Seine Without a Paddle

by Eliza Watson

  I walked for a while, and a warm glow of lights stretched across the Seine. An ornately sculpted design resembling chiffon ribbon bordered the bridge’s arched bottom. Gilded winged horses perched on top of massive stone pillars stood guard on the four corners. I imagined an era when horse and buggies trotted across a cobblestone bridge, transporting people to dinner at Maxim’s or to a gallery showing.

  I found a semiquiet spot on the bridge, away from tourists snapping pics and couples making out. I took the plunge and called Rachel.

  “Hey, I know you’re working, but do you have a sec?” I asked.

  “Is everything okay?” Rachel continued typing away on her computer.

  “Yeah, it’s going fine.”

  “Can I call you in a few hours when I get home? I was going to tell you I can put you on the December meeting.”

  “Awesome.”

  Except Declan was on it. Talk about a double-edged sword. But no way was I turning down work or telling Rachel about our falling out. She’d be upset I hadn’t heeded her warning about Declan’s playboy reputation and allowed myself to fall for him, like every other breathing woman. I had to be professional.

  And cross my fingers that Declan would cancel.

  “I really need to talk now, if you can.”

  Before I chickened out.

  Rachel’s fingers stopped tapping against the keyboard. “Ah, okay.” A mix of curiosity and apprehension filled her voice. “Just let me close my door.” She never shut out work.

  I took a deep breath. “Don’t say anything until I finish, okay?”

  “Okay.” She eased the word out with hesitation.

  I talked so quickly I could barely follow what I was saying. Hopefully Rachel could. I picked up speed rather than pausing to come up for air, fearing I’d stop if I did. I rattled off the demeaning things Andy used to say or do to me, slowly whittling away at my self-esteem until it was gone. How Martha had rescued me in the restaurant bathroom and convinced me to leave him. That his stalking had turned me into a basket case, causing me to get fired. When I finished, silence hung in the air.

  “Um…that’s it,” I said.

  More silence. Say something!

  “My God, Caity,” Rachel muttered. “I don’t know what to say. I can’t—” A catch of emotion cracked her voice. “Sorry.” She cleared her throat. “I’m sure me being all emotional doesn’t help.”

  It helped a lot, actually, to know she sympathized and wasn’t going to say I told you so. Or react like Declan would and say Were you bloody mad to have stayed with the arse?

  “I always thought he was a jerk, but I didn’t realize it’d been that bad, or I’d have done an intervention. I wish I’d known. I feel horrible you had to turn to this Martha, a complete stranger, instead of me.”

  Martha was dead-on about loved ones feeling bad I hadn’t confided in them.

  “I’m not trying to put you on a guilt trip. You couldn’t have known. It was my choice not to tell you, and I’m sorry I didn’t sooner. I was ashamed I’d allowed him to treat me like that and hadn’t stood up for myself.”

  “You’re a strong person, Caity, and I’ll help you get through this. Just let me know what I can do.”

  “You’re already doing it. Thanks.”

  “I know we haven’t been real close the past several years, but I want that to change. I really do.” She choked back a sob and sniffled. I pictured warms tears trailing down her cheeks, like they were on mine.

  We made plans to do dinner when I was back in town. I hung up and started bawling, tears of relief rather than sadness. A weight had been lifted off my entire body. For the first time since leaving Andy, I felt like I was truly going to be okay and not merely trying to convince myself that I was. Discussing our relationship with others would become easier. The next time I encountered a verbally abusive situation between a couple, I’d be better equipped emotionally to deal with it and to help the victim.

  Getting over Declan wouldn’t be as difficult as healing from an abusive relationship. Technically, Declan and I had never even had a relationship. Yet if Declan hadn’t convinced me that I’d done a good job in Dublin, I wouldn’t have confronted Rachel after our argument there and cleared the air, paving the way for the conversation we’d just had. I owed him a lot, which made everything more difficult.

  Too bad I hadn’t had faith in Rachel sooner. Even though our relationship had been strained the past few years, she’d always been there for me while growing up. We were family. However, I still wasn’t ready to tell Mom. She’d insist on interviewing prospective boyfriends and start conducting a boyfriend search along with my job search.

  However, I had to call her and apologize.

  I wiped away my tears, cleared my throat, and regained my composure so Mom didn’t ask why I was upset, and because people were starting to stare.

  She answered on the second ring. A good sign.

  “I’m so sorry,” I said, forgoing a hello. “I can’t believe I forgot your anniversary. I feel horrible.”

  I didn’t regret having stuck up for myself and addressing her lack of faith in me, but I shouldn’t have had the confrontation on her anniversary.

  After a few moments of silence, Mom said, “That’s okay, dear. You’ve never forgotten anyone’s birthday or anniversary. It’s bound to happen. Rachel has forgotten several. It’s just not like you to forget. It’s not that I don’t think you can do your job. I just don’t want you to turn out like Rachel.”

  I about fell off the bridge into the Seine. Since when didn’t Mom want me to be more like Rachel? To possess her drive, motivation, successful career, goals, and sense of direction?

  “That was a horrible thing to say. Don’t tell your sister I said that. I love her dearly. I just meant that she’s always working and so stressed out. I don’t want you to become like that and lose your fun and easygoing personality.”

  I feared I’d already lost my joie de vivre.

  I was determined to get it back.

  “I promise I won’t let this job become my life.”

  Even though my job was the only life I currently had.

  * * *

  I was proud of myself for walking back to my hotel alone at night. The streets were lively and well lit. Even the café on my hotel’s street was filled with a late dinner crowd. I entered the lobby, overwhelmed by the scent of lemons. Madame Laurent scurried around with a dust rag, polishing the sheen on the tables. She cheerfully informed me that her son and his family were due there in an hour. He’d canceled his business to visit her.

  I hoped he didn’t no-show.

  I embraced Madame Laurent’s petite frame, and she squeezed me tightly. I drew back, initiating a French air-kiss to her cheeks, an I’m so happy for you hug. And maybe I just felt we both needed a hug. A glassy haze filled the woman’s gray eyes. I fought back tears. Esmé barked with such excitement her front paws lifted off the floor. I gave the dog a big hug. Madame Laurent and Esmé made the hotel feel like a home, like I was staying with close family in Paris. Whereas the Hôtel Sophie made me feel like I was a distant cousin, three times removed, dropping in unexpectedly for the week.

  I said good night and headed up to my room before I turned into a blubbering idiot.

  I checked Facebook. Zoe hadn’t accepted my friend request. She likely hadn’t been on since I’d sent it. Considering the awkward situation with Declan, I should cancel the request.

  Yet I didn’t.

  Feeling a bit lonely after enduring the bachelorette party on the cruise, and since I was on a roll opening up about my feelings, I decided to contact Ashley. I laid the pillows against the headboard and rested against them. I booted up my laptop. I needed to explain my side of our argument a year ago. She’d said some nasty, albeit true, things about Andy, but in a manner that had immediately put me on the defensive. What if she’d tactfully and sympathetically explained her reasoning, like Martha had? I couldn’t fault Ashley for not having the skills of a counse
lor. Yet deep down, did I resent her for not doing an intervention? Was that why it had taken me so long to reach out to her and why I hadn’t apologized?

  It didn’t really matter who was to blame. Our friendship was over. I had to accept it. Our lives were heading in different directions. I shouldn’t be holding on to something that no longer existed.

  I needed to move forward.

  I would make new friends.

  Maybe some of them would be my newfound Irish rellies.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The following morning, I left my guest room at the ungodly hour of 6:00 a.m. I’d stayed up past midnight finishing my letter to Sadie Collentine. I slipped the yellow stationary envelope inside my purse, wondering if her mail was being forwarded to her son’s address in County Cork. I’d spent all that time compiling the best possible letter, and now I wasn’t sure I wanted to send it. If Sadie had insight into Grandma’s past, good or bad, I’d feel compelled to share it with Mom. Could I learn the truth and not tell her?

  Mariele and Esmé greeted me at breakfast. Thoughts of seeing Declan after our argument had my stomach so queasy I decided to skip the pastries. I stifled a yawn while pouring a large to-go cup of tea. Mariele wore a delighted smile and excitedly bounced back and forth between English and French, rather than her usual broken English, explaining that Madame Laurent was spending the day with her son’s family. I cheered, and Esmé wagged her tail, joining our celebration. I hoped she would be around to check me out tomorrow morning so I could say good-bye.

  I stepped outside, and the crisp air acted as a jolt of caffeine. Lampposts rather than sunshine still lit the city. It was too early for the man to be hosing down the sidewalk in front of the produce market, but a few people were walking dogs or out jogging. The aroma of coffee wafted from the café, and the scent of fried bacon from an open apartment window. While crossing the bridge, my gaze narrowed with fierce determination on the Musée d’Orsay.

  Just try to kick me out!

  No cars to park or luggage to tote this early, two bellmen stood idly outside the Hôtel Sophie chatting. Declan wasn’t bidding Au revoir to attendees while sticking them in a black Mercedes to the airport. A bellman held open the door. I gave him a pleasant Merci while giving myself an encouraging pep talk, trying to calm my nervous jitters over seeing Declan. I entered the hotel’s lobby, empty with the exception of staff. Marcel had just arrived, sipping coffee from a white china cup. I walked over to him for directions to the nearest post office and its hours.

  I had to send the letter to Sadie Collentine.

  The concierge offered to mail it.

  I handed him the envelope addressed to my rellie, and five euros. “Will this cover postage to Ireland?”

  Marcel handed me back the bill. “Je suis heureux de le faire, Mademoiselle Caity.”

  Not only did he know my name, but he’d used my first name, a friendly gesture, unlike the polite use of my last name. We weren’t to the point of air-kissing each other’s cheeks, but I held out my hand, and he gave it a warm shake, a sincere smile putting a glint in his eyes.

  “Merci beaucoup.” I smiled brightly. Not a victorious grin, proud of having won over the aloof concierge. Merely an appreciative one for him starting my day off better than I’d feared it would begin.

  I headed across the lobby toward Le Dungeon, spotting Declan in his orange shirt, seated in a gold-upholstered chair tucked in a corner, reviewing the departure manifest on his clipboard. His black jacket was draped over the back of the chair.

  I slowly approached him, squaring my shoulders and jutting out my chin, assuming a professional demeanor. “Morning. How are departures going?”

  He glanced up with a faint smile. “Grand.” He stood, grabbing a plastic laundry bag off the floor by his feet. He offered me the bag. “My hotel toiletries for your friend’s shelter.”

  My shoulders relaxed. I was touched that he’d remembered I’d collected the amenities in Dublin for Martha’s shelter. How sweet… Realizing I was caving, I squared my shoulders once again. I accepted the bag, surprised by its heavy weight.

  “I gave the maid a few quid so she’d leave some extra bottles. Hopefully, they’ll fit in your suitcase.”

  I’d have to cram stuff from my suitcase into my carry-on bag. My luggage had been overweight coming here, and it definitely would be going back.

  “Thanks,” I muttered, staring down at the Hôtel Sophie’s elegant font scrolled across the front of the plastic bag. I glanced up, our gazes locking.

  “No problem a’ tall.” He shrugged like it was no big deal when we both knew it was.

  This was an olive branch. A way for Declan to apologize for his unsympathetic behavior yesterday without having to actually say he was sorry. Damnit. Every time I decided I needed to walk away from Declan, he did something to keep me there. I appreciated the toiletries, but I refused to ignore what had happened between us, like we always did. I was tired of the games. I needed him to say he was sorry for not even trying to understand, or at least respect, my feelings about that woman’s relationship with her husband.

  We’d been standing there several moments in silence, providing him the opportunity to apologize.

  He obviously didn’t want to.

  “Can I have a copy of the departure manifest?” I asked.

  Declan blinked, appearing taken aback by my business-as-usual attitude. “Right, then. Ah, sure.” He removed a copy of the paperwork from his clipboard and handed it to me.

  “Are you going to meet the drivers outside like you did in Dublin, and I’ll greet people in the lobby and walk them out?”

  “Sounds grand. The driver is parked along the side for the next…” He trailed off as Little Henry and his family entered the lobby.

  The boy spied me, and his face lit up. He ran over from the front desk, where his parents were checking out. He thrust a sheet of paper at me. “That man printed this for me.” He waved at Marcel, who waved back with a smile.

  I peered down at the sheet of paper with Henry and me in the Mickey Mouse ears, smiling wide. Our photo from yesterday.

  Henry’s smile faded into a frown. “Now you won’t ever forget me.” The little boy glanced between Declan and me. “Do you have pictures of you guys so you won’t forget each other?”

  I avoided Declan’s stare, a warm sensation rising up my neck to my cheeks. Was he also recalling our goofy pictures together at the Eiffel Tower, with the belly dancer, and dressed in the flight crew costumes?

  I didn’t need pictures to remember Declan.

  I was never going to forget Declan and the time we’d shared in Paris.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  My auburn hair and blue eyes were my most distinguishing features. Wearing dark sunglasses inside the Musée d’Orsay would look rather suspicious, so I tucked my hair up inside my blue knit beret. I held my breath as the stern-looking older woman exchanged my money for an entrance ticket. A thrill of excitement raced through me as I nonchalantly breezed inside before she could stop me. I could imagine the adrenaline rush an art thief experienced when casing a museum.

  Hopefully, the nasty security guard wasn’t on duty or wouldn’t remember me, with the thousands of people visiting here daily. However, few, if any, had been involved in almost finger painting a Monet with chocolate. I strolled through the sculpture exhibit, heading toward the back escalator. Without Henry to slow me down, I walked up the escalator rather than waiting impatiently for it to transport me to the top level. I entered the Impressionist wing. Late in the day, the crowd had thinned out, making it difficult to blend in. A young, unfamiliar man standing guard, and the pastel-colored artwork on the soft gray walls, calmed my nerves. The guard’s gaze swept the room without pausing on me or darting back for a second look. A good sign. However, a different guard patrolled each room.

  I made a beeline for the adjoining room, housing Renoir’s Young Girls at the Piano. I came to an abrupt halt in the doorway. A nervous flutter in my chest took
my breath away. Dressed in jeans and a cream wool sweater, Declan was seated on a bench in the middle of the room, studying the painting, deep in thought. I’d been dying to see the Renoir for years, yet I couldn’t drag my gaze from Declan to admire it. Apparently sensing my stare, he slowly glanced at me. After several moments, he stood and walked cautiously toward me, holding my gaze. My heart went berserk.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked calmly, struggling to keep the nervous quiver from my voice, fidgeting with my beret.

  Stop fidgeting!

  “I didn’t see Young Girls at the Piano the other day either.”

  I hadn’t told him I was coming here. I could have been at the top of the Eiffel Tower, cruising the Seine, or getting wasted at the Irish pub. The fact that he knew me well enough to track me down so quickly in a huge city intensified the trembling throughout my body. We hadn’t known each other that long. However, Declan seemed to know me better than anyone.

  He glanced around at the paintings, then back at me, with a determined glint in his blue eyes. “I’m sorry. I handled things like shite yesterday.”

  He gazed expectantly at me, waiting for a response. All I could manage was a faint nod, unsure what to say and not wanting to appear overly excited that he was apologizing.

  “I should have realized it was personal for you, about your ex. I mean, people often think their ex is an arse—that’s why they’re an ex. But Jaysus, you pepper spraying me in Dublin should have been a red flag. Guess you should have sprayed me again. Woken me up.”

  I nodded.

  He shifted his stance, raking a nervous hand through his hair. My silence was weakening his confidence. Yet a lot was riding on what came out of my mouth next, and I had a knack for saying the wrong thing and regretting it.

  “I don’t want you to leave Paris with things going unsaid. Like what happened with…Shauna. Whatever happened with your ex, you didn’t deserve it. And you deserve better than how I reacted yesterday. I tend to avoid discussing feelings. Anyone’s. I’ve never been good at it, even worse since Shauna’s death. Losing her made me experience emotions I’d never felt, and it scared the hell out of me. I was afraid of feeling like that forever, so it was easier to just stop feeling.”