The Wonder of Now

by Beck, Jamie

  Mitch stepped inside the store and came to an abrupt stop—awestruck by the gilt and mirrors and murals, like something out of the Palace of Versailles. The dizzying and delicious aroma of butter, sugar, fruit, and chocolate filtered through the air. For a moment, he wished to change places with the bakers and spend his days working in a place like this. To focus on perfecting each item and seeing the look of pleasure in every patron’s eyes. Now he scanned the dozens of breads and pastries lining the counters—too many choices. French-speaking patrons jostled him on their hurried way in and out of the store.

  You would’ve loved this, Dad.

  All those imagined vacations his father had described at the dinner table before any of them knew cancer was eating away at his brain.

  Europe—an impossible dream at fifteen, now Mitch’s reality. Maybe when his business was secure, he’d return with his mom and sister for pleasure to explore all the streets and shops and museums he’d been passing up to get to the next interview or reading. His dad would’ve wanted that for them. With Peyton’s travelogues for guidance, it’d be easy to hit the best spots, although those journals wouldn’t be any substitute for her company—at least her company when she wasn’t ditching him.

  “Alors, monsieur! Qu’est-ce que vous voulez?” The impatient woman behind the counter’s expression told him everything he could not understand from her words.

  He pointed out an assortment of croissants and then ordered two café au laits, which he transferred to the thermos he always carried in his backpack. He hid the entire stash of goodies there before jogging back to the hotel to meet Peyton in the lobby as planned.

  Beautiful Peyton. Her loose curls bounced against her jaw as she approached him, and deep inside, a happy sigh lightened his heart as if yesterday had never happened. Magic.

  Another sundress—the color of a ripe pomegranate—brushed the tops of her knees. For days now he’d admired her shapely calves. Imagined trailing his fingers up them. Was she ticklish? He gave himself a mental headshake.

  “I told you one day I’d be waiting on you.” She tipped her head expectantly. Her stiff posture suggested she was bracing for a lecture.

  “I’ll be impressed if it happens again.” When he smiled, her shoulders relaxed. “Let’s grab a taxi.”

  “Where are we going?” She crossed her arms.

  He didn’t want to spoil the surprise, which he hoped would prove that he wasn’t the robot she believed him to be. After finishing her book, he couldn’t dismiss her attitude about the importance of happiness, although in a life that had been about duty, he’d rarely prioritized joy. “I’d like us to consider a fresh start and had an idea you might enjoy—mostly, anyway.”

  “Mostly?”

  He shrugged and gestured toward the door with his head.

  “Very cloak-and-dagger of you.” The glimmer of a smile tipped the corners of her mouth as she followed him outside. It seemed he’d broken through the tension. Now he had to get on with sharing his story and pray it’d be enough.

  Their taxi dropped them alongside the Seine near the Pont Neuf. Mitch paid the fare, put on his sunglasses, and followed Peyton out of the cab.

  “Last night I rattled a half-hearted apology, but I am sorry I put you in that uncomfortable situation,” she said. “If you’re going to read me the riot act, let’s please get it over with.”

  “That’s not why we’re here.” He pointed toward the bridge.

  She stopped on the sidewalk and glanced around, her wrap dress fluttering in the breeze. The sunlight brightened her hair and practically glinted off her snowy-white teeth when she smiled. “Oh! Are we going where I think we’re going?”

  He lifted one shoulder. “Depends on where you think we’re going.”

  Scanning the area, he took in the sight of Paris’s oldest bridge, which spanned the Seine with a series of stone arches, all embellished with corbels, cornices, and other things—1606! He followed Peyton as she began to cross it, unable to comprehend the centuries between its construction and his being here.

  Midway across, they came upon the bronze equestrian statue of Henri IV located in a small, rectangular parklike area. As Mitch got closer, he noticed a padlock affixed to the metal gate surrounding the statue. He held it for closer inspection. In red permanent marker, someone had written “A.C. + G.B.” across its body. He frowned.

  Peyton chuckled. “A love lock.”

  “What?” He let it fall back against the fence.

  “Last spring, they removed forty tons of these from this area and made it illegal to put them here—the weight was dangerous for this old bridge. Someone recently took a big risk for love.” Sighing wistfully, Peyton stroked it. “It’s romantic. People inscribe them and then lock them as a symbol of unbreakable love.”

  “Teenagers?” Until this week, he had forgotten the intensity and dramatic emotion of that kind of infatuation. Then Peyton had blown into his life with her beauty and passion, and her constant challenges to him and his lifestyle.

  “Oh, Optimus. There’s no shelf life on romance. Adults fall in love, too.” She shook her head and smiled. “You’ll find these in many European cities.”

  Unbreakable love. His parents had had that until death sliced through it like a bolt cutter, but he rarely saw it elsewhere. Peyton hadn’t found it with Todd, although the dreamy look on her face proved she still believed it existed somewhere.

  Uncomfortable with the direction of his thoughts, he located the steep steps that led down to the Île de la Cité.

  “Careful,” he called over his shoulder as he started down to the little river island some called the beginning of Paris.

  “Oh, I love this!” Her voice bubbled like a swift stream over rocks. “How do you know about the Square du Vert-Galant?”

  “Your blog made it sound quaint. I wanted to see it for myself.” With you, he thought, but kept that to himself.

  A picnic. A romantic one, some might argue. He’d never been big on romance. Hadn’t had much chance because there’d always been a more important demand on his time and his wallet.

  Today he indulged the slightest breach of his rules. If asked why, he’d claim he’d win more cooperation if he stopped treating her solely like a client. But in truth, he could no longer stand Peyton viewing him as Optimus or Butters or anyone other than Mitch.

  When they reached the bottom step, she skipped ahead wearing a giant grin. Free and easy, as she must’ve been often before her diagnosis.

  “It’s a perfect morning,” he said while looking at the cloudless sky. They strolled into the small treed park, situated at the triangular tip of the river island, not far from the shadows of the Louvre. If he weren’t so intent on why he was here, he might’ve been able to better appreciate what he was seeing. He stopped by an open bench and gestured for her to sit.

  She eyed the bag he pulled out of his backpack. “Please tell me there are croissants in there.”

  “From Du Pain et des Idées, along with a thermos of coffee.” His chest swelled when she clapped.

  “This isn’t what I expected. I admit, though, a little voice inside is freaking out, wondering if you’ve planned this nice break in order to take the sting out of bad news.”

  “You can relax. No bad news.” He sat beside her. “This isn’t about you or yesterday’s misfortune. This is about me.”

  Her curious gaze had him sweating, but he owed her the truth. While she dug into the bag of croissants, he poured them each a cup of coffee.

  “I try to minimize sugar now because it’s known to feed cancer cells.” She wrinkled her nose while picking through the bag and choosing a croissant layered with chocolate. “But in the spirit of living in the moment, I’m going to enjoy this. Thank you!”

  Her animated personality made it easy to forget why they were here working together, so the reminder that she could get sick again threw him.

  When she bit into the flaky crust, sugar-dusted pieces stuck to her face. Instinctively, he rea
ched out to brush them away. The silky pillow of her lower lip sent a jolt through him, and she blinked, equally shocked by his unusual familiarity.

  She licked her lips before pressing her fingertips to them. He had to remember to breathe while a pronounced silence stretched between them. Vaguely, he became aware of the distant sounds of traffic and pedestrians and boats passing by.

  Steam curled into the air from her coffee cup. She sipped it and then said, “I’m all ears, Mitch. What do you want to say?”

  No more stalling. He removed his sunglasses and stuffed them in his shirt pocket.

  “I know your side trip yesterday was a reaction to your disappointment in me. I want to explain why I didn’t want to read your book.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, coffee in hand.

  “We could’ve had that conversation at the hotel.”

  “True, but after reading your story these past two nights, I thought it better to step away from ‘the office’ and just . . . be.”

  She stared into her cup, wearing a wry expression. “I’m proud to have had a small effect on you, although the irony isn’t lost on me.”

  “Irony?”

  “Think about it.” She screwed up her face. “Now, in the middle of the European book tour I’m flubbing, you’re taking your foot off the gas to smell the roses—to mix a few metaphors.”

  “First, we’ll fix the ‘flubbing.’ Second, this is a red light. Less—a stop sign. A little break so I can tell my story.” He rubbed his forehead.

  She straightened her spine and set down the half-eaten pastry. “Now you’ve got my attention.”

  “Don’t expect much. I’m not that interesting.” He paused, choked by the reality that his sob story didn’t excuse his unprofessionalism. Nor was that the sole reason he wanted to share it with her.

  She crossed her legs, shifting to face him head-on. Her eyes twinkled with a playful light. “If you’re hoping I’ll tell you not to bother, you’ll be disappointed. After all the talking I’ve had to do, I’m ready to hear someone else’s story for a change.”

  He set his cup on the ground. “Mine isn’t worthy of a book deal.”

  “Lucky you,” she deadpanned before sipping more coffee.

  With a sigh, he confessed, “I didn’t read your book because of my dad.”

  “He didn’t like it?” She tipped her head.

  “No. He didn’t read it. I mean, he’s dead.” His phone buzzed in his pocket, drawing her attention, but he ignored it. No interruptions.

  “I’m so sorry.” Peyton seemed to be holding her breath, as if he might stop talking if she exhaled.

  “Thanks, but it’s been a long time. In fact, let me back up so you get the full picture. I grew up in Hoboken. My dad wanted so many things for our family—travel, college, adventure. He loved life.” He smiled at her. “You remind me of him in some ways.”

  “So he was awesome?” She winked, making him chuckle.

  “I thought so.” He looked away, having revealed more with that statement than intended. “He convinced me I could be anything, despite the fact that we didn’t have much of anything. Sadly, he never ‘got ahead,’ no matter how much he wished for and worked toward it. Funny, now, how I didn’t see that irony at the time.”

  “We all take our parents at face value when we’re young.”

  “I guess.” A breeze rustled the leaves overhead, drawing attention to the fact that he was spilling his guts in a public park. He didn’t remember ever sharing coffee in a park with a woman for any reason, nor could he recall the last time he’d talked about his family with anyone. “Anyway, for a little while—right after my sister was born—it looked like things were taking a turn for the better. My dad got a new accounting job with a tech start-up. Like many at that time, he accepted low pay in exchange for stock options. A gamble he believed he’d win. ‘We’ll be rich!’ he’d sing.”

  Mitch recalled the burnt-almond torte his dad had brought to dinner that night to celebrate, its icing covered with sugared almond slivers, its layers filled with vanilla pudding. The joy in his parents’ eyes. “Unfortunately, his dreams grew bigger and faster than the company, which never paid him much. My mom worked odd jobs to help make ends meet. Still, we were a happy family until he got diagnosed with stage-four glioblastoma multiforme.”

  “Oh!” Peyton laid her hand on his thigh, scattering his sad memories by making his body fill with such need it almost lifted him right off the bench. “I’m so sorry.”

  Mitch nodded, ignoring his phone for the second time. Peyton withdrew her hand, bringing him back down to earth and the tale he hadn’t finished. “I was in high school at the time. The good and bad news was that death came within a year. But the medical bills piled up, and my mom was overwhelmed with a preschooler, a dying husband, and no safety net. She had to work two jobs, so I had to help take care of Lauren and also ended up being a caretaker for my dad.”

  “So young to deal with so much.” Her gaze remained fixed on him.

  He hardly heard her over the bubbling current of memories rushing through his head. He stared out at nothing, words now falling without thought or structure, bobbing along like fallen leaves on a river. “They call that type of brain tumor the terminator for good reason. I watched my dad die piece by piece. His speech slurred like a stroke victim until he couldn’t speak at all. Gross motor functions became less and less controlled. But the worst were those last ten days. The doctors tried to combat his dehydration with a feeding tube shoved down his throat, and all speech was gone. He’d moan in pain because the tumor had grown so big it was pushing against the wall of his skull. His eyes would roll back, he’d convulse—more bloat from edema. It seemed almost a blessing when he would drift out of consciousness.

  “The last time he was aware of me, I promised I’d take care of my mom and Lauren, hoping to give him the peace of mind he needed to let go. He struggled so hard to flick his wrist with a tiny thumbs-up . . . and that was it. The last thing he ever ‘said’ to me, basically, before he slipped into a coma. Those final hours—his skin blue and rumpled as his kidneys and other things shut down—I sat there holding his hand. Nothing is worse than listening to that awful death rattle. It sounds like a straw sucking the last bit of drink, except I knew the gurgle was the fluids pushing up and down his throat as his breathing slowed from four breaths per minute to three . . .” Closing his eyes didn’t block the images. “In the end, I laid my head on his legs, counting down those final breaths until they stopped. Silence. Peace for him, but not for me.” He pinched the bridge of his nose.

  “Mitch . . .”

  He shook his head, motioning with his hand. “His fight . . . That suffering affected me to this day. Back then, I had to stuff down my anger and grief to keep my promise. I quit everything after school and got a job to help my mom pay bills. At night I’d wake from panic attacks about what would happen to Lauren and me if my mom got sick.”

  Peyton squeezed his forearm. “You kept your word, and your dad would be so proud of what you’ve achieved.”

  Probably, although that hadn’t been his sole motivation. “I needed to do whatever it took to make sure we weren’t in that precarious situation again. Scholarships got me through Fordham without too much debt. I worked while in college to help pay for extras, and contribute to things like my sister’s piano lessons. Once my career got going, I’d take my family to Rehoboth for a week each summer.”

  “I’m sorry I’ve teased you about being robotic.” Closing her eyes, she hung her head. “I never meant it to be cruel. Or careless.”

  She reached for his hand and squeezed it, and somehow the painful memories he’d shared gently floated downstream.

  “It’s fine.” He had to be honest. “Until recently, I’ve been grateful you’ve viewed me as dull.”

  She straightened, slowly removing her hand. “Why?”

  He stared into her aquamarine eyes, transfixed by their pretty gold flecks. If she weren’t his client, he might slide her
up along his side, kiss her cheek, her temple, her lips . . . When he couldn’t take that daydream another second, he glanced away. “Since Danielle, it’s been easy to keep my professional boundaries . . . until you came along. I’ve been working overtime to keep my distance.”

  Having admitted the truth, he peeked up to gauge her reaction. When her cheeks turned pink, a satisfied hum vibrated in his chest. His heart beat fast at the hint of her feelings, urging him to seize the moment.

  As if she were the center of all gravity, he tipped toward her, teetering on the edge of doing something out of character. His phone buzzed a third time, snapping him out of the haze. He should check it, but if he didn’t finish his story now, he might never get through it all.

  “Should you get that?” She pointed at his jacket pocket, where he kept his phone.

  “In a minute.”

  “Okay.” Her expression registered mild surprise. “So you’re saying you avoided my book because you didn’t want to revisit those memories.”

  “I thought opening that emotional baggage would interfere with my ability to work with you, so I passed the book off to Rebecca.” He turned his body toward her. “Having now read it, I can assure you that Rebecca did an excellent job with her summary. I wouldn’t change one thing we pitched or planned. Still, I’ve learned more about you from reading it, and had I done so from the start, I think our work together could’ve gone more smoothly. So for that, and all the other reasons, I’m very sorry.”

  Peyton didn’t question him further. She seemed to escape into her own mind for a minute. He shifted on the bench, restless in the silence.

  He looked up at the sky, envious of the birds overhead that soared above the chaos. “At the very least, I should’ve been forthright from the beginning. If you want to replace me, I understand. But please continue this tour regardless. I really want your book to succeed.”