The Bridge

by Jill Cox

  “That’s not a rumor,” I said quietly. “But it doesn’t mean what you’re thinking. Besides, don’t you talk to Meg?”

  “That’s different. There was nothing serious going on with us.”

  “Um, really? Because I saw you making out in Tours, and… “

  “Once,” he corrected. “You saw us kissing once.”

  I shifted around to face him. “But Dan said she was always at your house. That he couldn’t get away from her.”

  Pete tilted his head back and laughed so hard his cheeks turned pink. “That was Dan giving you a taste of your own medicine, Little Miss Busybody. After he realized how well your slight embellishments on the truth worked with Anne, he decided to run his own experiment on you. Without my permission, I’d like to add for the record.”

  “So you and Meg weren’t…”

  “We hung out, yes.” He rubbed his hand along the back of his neck. “Meg’s a flirt, I’m a flirt. I ran into her and her friends on the train to Lucerne that weekend after La Nuit Blanche, and to my surprise, we got along well. But we both knew it wasn’t going anywhere. Meg’s still on-and-off with her high school boyfriend, and I’m pretty sure she knew how I felt about you. Which is why I keep asking about Sutton. Come on, be honest with me, Sully. You don’t just get over someone you’ve loved that long in a couple of weeks.”

  I couldn’t help but smile. “You’re pretty cute with your heart on your sleeve, did you know that?”

  “Am I?” He grinned. “What took you so long to notice?”

  “Look, in my defense, you had that whole Portuguese Water Dog thing going on the first two years I knew you. How was I supposed to know there was a person under there?”

  “I’m not sure you’re in any position to pass judgment right now.” He tugged at my ponytail, then paused. “How come you keep avoiding my question, Sully?”

  I looked Pete squarely in the eye. “Because you already know the answer. I’ve got two syllables for you, sir. Ver-tismes. You read my tweets. Only one thing provokes that level of insanity.”

  Pete smiled. “Too much coffee?”

  “Try again.”

  Pete looked up at the sky and scratched his invisible beard. “I mean, this is just a theory, but you think I’m hot?”

  “Don’t be smug,” I said, shoving him gently in the stomach. “The fact is, you gave me Paris. I figure the least I can do is let you take me out to dinner a couple of nights a week. Just don’t make me wear that poodle perfume. I might vomit.”

  Pete’s eyes went soft as he brushed my cheek with his thumb. “Sully, you’ve broken my heart every day for the past three years, under every condition possible. So go ahead. Insult me all you want. My heart will always be yours.”

  Major swoon, avec sigh.

  FIFTY-FIVE

  What college student dreads the end of school? This one. On the second Friday in June, we took a three-hour exam in the morning, then spent most of the afternoon in the courtyard of the Centre Lafayette. All of our fellow students and most of the staff were there. Even Meg, who brought her new French boyfriend. Turns out strep throat was actually good for Meg’s health, because while we were in the south of France, she became better acquainted with her friend Corinne’s older brother, the très beau Thierry.

  After the official end-of-school party, our little group of six had an early dinner chez Marie-France for the last time. She busted out the best champagne from the wine cellar. And we finally got to meet her Venetian Scotsman – the very ginger, very gorgeous, very ten years her junior Angus Fitzgibbons.

  Later that night, we walked together as far as the Pont des Arts, where the six of us lined up, arms around waists, and watched the sun setting over the Seine. I tried to memorize every second, but that pesky melancholy that had been chasing me down all week kept spoiling the moment. Who knew if we would ever be together like this again, here, in this place? I couldn’t see how we would. And even if we all managed to return again, it could never be the same. We would eventually move on with our lives, always sharing these memories, but we’d never recapture this moment, when we were happy together and in love with Paris.

  When the sun finally set in the distance, Harper and Kelly headed home and Dan asked Anne to take a walk by the river.

  And then there were two, standing on the exact spot where Gigi and Pops had gotten engaged fifty years earlier.

  Pete slipped his jacket around me, guiding my arms into the sleeves. I loved wearing Pete’s jacket. It smelled like him. And tonight I had to laugh because it smelled of the scent I’d made him at the perfume factory.

  “Nice cologne, Russell,” I said, snuggling against his chest.

  “Thanks. Some chick made it. I think she has a thing for me.”

  “She just might.” I so did.

  Tonight, Pete was wearing the same shirt he’d worn the night of La Nuit Blanche, and I began to wonder if he’d done it on purpose. His grandmother had been right. Pete was one of the most sentimental people I’d ever known. It was probably what I loved most about him.

  “Hey, Sully,” he said, resting his chin on my shoulder. “Do me a favor and check the right pocket of my jacket. I think there’s something in there for you.”

  “What? But I didn’t get you anything!”

  Pete sighed, and slid his hand into the pocket at my waist. “Always so concerned with the rules.” He handed me a small velvet pouch. “Now stop complaining and be careful opening this, because as you can see, there are rickety slats in this bridge and they might crumble out from underneath you if you let something so important slip through your fingers.”

  “Not even a month in and you’re mocking my metaphors.” I slid my fingers carefully inside the tiny pouch to find a tiny antique silver charm. I couldn’t tell how old it was, but it looked to be at least half a century old. Engraved in really small letters was the French phrase je t’aime plus qu’hier, moins que demain – I love you more than yesterday, less than tomorrow.

  “Pops gave it to my grandmother when they were in school here. Gigi saw your charm bracelet when you came to the house to visit her. That evening, she asked me to get her jewelry box. When she took out this charm, she told me to give it to you. I tried to explain to her that you were in love with someone else, but Gigi said, “Peter, don’t be a fool. Take it back with you to Paris. You never know what might happen. Besides, I’ve got a good feeling about that Meredith Sullivan. She sees the real you.’”

  “But, Pete, what if something happens? It belonged to Gigi. You should keep it.”

  Pete pushed the charm back into the pouch, closed my hands around it, then closed his hand around mine. “Nothing’s going to happen. If Gigi said to give it to you, it’s yours.”

  I dropped the pouch back into his pocket, then kissed Pete like this was our last chance. Every time we kissed, I still felt a little sad at all the months we’d wasted orbiting around one another when we were both feeling the same thing – heartbroken in love.

  When Pete pulled away, he took my hands in his. “So, listen. I did something this week that I’m not sure you’re going to like.”

  “You signed up for Irish step dancing classes?”

  “You’re not too far off there. You know how you keep saying you’re nervous to meet Kate?”

  For two years since our Nana died, my parents had been leasing her house to some vacation property rental company. But after my dad’s surgery, Ian had convinced them that we should put it up for sale, so I was meeting him tomorrow in Ireland to do what I could to help. But much to my chagrin, Ian had also invited the mysterious Kate Maher – his new girlfriend. The one Drew claimed no one liked.

  I shivered. “Did you hire a private investigator or something?”

  “No,” he smiled. “I called your brother to find out which flight you’re taking to Shannon tomorrow. I’m coming with you to Ireland.”

  “Wait, what? Are you serious?”

  “Yeah. I don’t have to be home for a while – Gigi had
all her legal stuff so organized that I don’t have much to do anyway. And I don’t know about you, but I don’t feel like pining over you for a whole month when we’ve both been pining all year already.”

  I couldn’t help myself. I hugged Pete so long that I was sure he might push me away. I knew if I said anything else, I would start crying, and there had already been too many tears this year.

  “Okay, I’m a little relieved,” he said quietly into my ear. “Because your mom also called and invited me to stay in Ian’s old room for the rest of the summer when we get back to Oregon. They need extra help at the restaurant since your dad’s on leave, so…”

  Little did Pete know that ever since he’d helped me get home, my family loved him more than they loved me. And they didn’t even know anything yet about the scholarship or his parents’ accident. This time, I did cry. But only until Pete kissed me again.

  “I guess that’s another yes,” he said, pulling away. “Let’s see if the third time’s the charm.”

  It always came back to three, didn’t it?

  Pete reached into his jeans pocket, then looked back up at me. “Before you overreact, this is not my lavaliere.”

  I lifted an eyebrow. Had he heard what happened with Drew last fall? Surely not.

  “Here.” He took my hand in his, then turned it over, palm facing up. I looked down to find a small, old-fashioned silver key no bigger than a paper clip. “Can you guess what it is?”

  “Um… a metronome?”

  Pete grabbed it back. “Play nice, Sully.”

  “Okay, it’s a key, but what’s it for? Please say a zeppelin. Or wait… a Zamboni?”

  “Ah. So close.” Pete produced a padlock from behind his back. It was larger than normal, smooth and flat, and as he handed it to me, I saw that it had two sets of initials and two dates written on it. When I looked more closely, I realized they must be his grandparents’ initials and the date of their wedding around fifty years ago. And below it, also written in Pete’s distinctive script, were two more sets of initials, with a date twenty-eight years ago.

  His parents’ anniversary.

  When I looked back up, he held a Sharpie in his left hand. “I brought this padlock with me when we flew back in March. I found it at Gigi’s house, in Pops’s toolbox.”

  “But Pete, we’re not allowed to…”

  “Slow down, Sully. I know it’s against the rules. But I’m pretty sure we’ve seen at least one way to sidestep the City of Paris’s ordinance. Remember?”

  “You mean that couple on La Nuit Blanche? The ones who threw the lock in the river, then kept the key for themselves? I can’t believe you remember that.”

  “Of course I remember.” Pete handed me the Sharpie. “Look, no matter what, I’m dropping this padlock in the river tonight for Gigi and Pops, and for my parents. But I was hoping we could add our names here as well. You know, to make you-plus-me official.”

  Pete watched me expectantly, but there was no question in my mind. I opened the pen cap and wrote PBR + MFS, June 11th (but really a long, long, LONG time before that). Good thing he’d brought the fine point pen. I handed the padlock back to Pete for inspection, and he smiled so brightly that I forgot for a moment how to breathe.

  After a moment, he took out the tiny old key again and handed it to me. “For safekeeping,” he whispered, then kissed me for what felt like hours.

  When the river below us seemed momentarily traffic-free, Pete turned me toward the Eiffel Tower, and the two of us leaned quickly over the edge and dropped the padlock to the bottom of the Seine. Then he took my hand and led me back across the bridge, then down the higgledy-piggledy streets back to my tiny chambre de bonne for the last time.

  Well, the last time for a while anyway. I have a good feeling about this Pete Russell. He sees the real me.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  If the world of The Bridge were real, Meredith and her friends would have been born the year I lived in Paris – the same year I got the idea for this book. My original drafts read more like a memoir, but in sketching real life onto the page, I learned that my stories weren’t mine alone to share.

  So instead, I wrote about an Irish-American girl from a coastal town in Oregon who falls in love with Paris, with her dearest friend, and with someone who changes her life. And while I populated Meredith’s story with a few scenes from my own, this novel is not an autobiography. It’s my love letter to Paris, to my friends, and to a moment that forever transformed who I would become.

  So thank you for reading The Bridge. The following people helped me put it into your hands.

  First and always, I thank my Heavenly Father, Author of Life, for blessing me with the gifts of language and stories, but more importantly, with the gift of your Son’s Love. Sola gratia.

  To my parents, Richard and Mary Jane, who are living examples of what true love really means: thank you for walking this road with me, for reading every draft, for your constant encouragement, for refusing to let me quit, and for flanking me at every turn. There’s no way this story could exist without your big-picture vision or the adventures we’ve had since you let teenage Jill take French (despite rumors that it’s impractical). I love you guys. We had fun, didn’t we?

  To my Beckett/Cox/McWhinney aunts, uncles, and cousins: I love you all so much. Thank you for being my clan. (But listen, y’all, let’s never talk about those kissing scenes. Like, ever.)

  To Jennifer Allen, Ashley Alvarado, Angela Azevedo, Hannah Beckwith, Lori Bennett, Nancy Bennett, Tracy Bickhaus, Avery Burns, Tiffany Byrd, Katy Byrne, Stephanie Carrington, Don and Sandra Clark, Susan Cordre, Krissi Dallas, Erin Daniel, Brooke DeVore, Lauren DeVore, Megan Grace DeVore, Amy Gilman, Annette Gunter, Faith Hampton, Holly Hatton, Mary Hinson, Andi Hooker, John Huston, Martha Jordan, Amy Kitchen, Lauren Knight, Alexa Kuffel, Erin McCullough, Hannah McGinnis, Jimmy McWhinney, Haley Moore, Meredith Moore, Lynley Nall, Kerrie O’Mara, Stephanie Osborne, Becca Polk, Amanda Porter, Cindy Prudich, Dusty Rabe, Heather Reid, Eddie Renz, Rina Reynolds, Kelsea Riddick, Robin Roach, Angela Senor, Amanda Sileven, Ashley Stiernagle, Kirston Stroder, Dianah Thelen, Tarran Turner, Stacy Wells, Edna and Johnny Westmoreland, Sheri Pettit White, Meg Wilder, and Adrienne White (with her trusty pink pen!) – THANK YOU for weighing in on every page with your helpful notes in the margins and encouraging doodles. You guys are my favorites.

  Huge thanks to Eddie Renz at Chemist Creative for the beautiful cover design and for my website. Shout out to Mike and ReJana Krause at BluDoor Studios (and to Macie, light-catcher extraordinaire!) for the gorgeous headshots. A gigantic merci to my girl Miah Oren for your generous help with all things left-brained, and to my favorite whippersnapper, Miranda Mabery, for designing my social media campaign and promotional materials. Squishy hugs to Tarran Turner for the Tower 19 Press logo and to Peggy Smolen for your insight and positivity. And a fist bump over the sea to my favorite Parisian, Florian Bartsch, for encouraging my work always.

  Heartfelt gratitude to Ella Kennen for giving Meredith’s story a clearer direction and a stronger backbone. To Sharon Duncan: it means the world to me that you would share your time and expertise to edit this story. Thank you for your wisdom, your encouragement, and for all the creative ways you’ve shaped Meredith’s tale. I could never repay the million things you’ve done over the years to make this book possible. But most of all, I feel lucky to have such a friend.

  The Texas bookish community is unabashedly supportive. Julie Murphy, thank you for introducing a random Twitter follower (me) to the crew. Shout out to Heather Acker, Misty Baker, Jess Capelle, China DeSpain, Caron Ervin, Rebekah Faubion, Amy Gideon, Amy Gilman, Heather Goodwin, Mary Hinson, Karen Jensen, Jenny Martin, Meredith Moore, Kayla Olson, Kristin Trevino, and Becky Wallace. Y’all are the best encouragers ever! Special thanks from the bottom of my heart to Britney Cossey, Destiny Cole, Krissi Dallas, Kari Olson, Heather Reid, Gabi Sikes, and Stacy Wells for the late-night check-ins, writing dates, and rock star support you’ve always given
me. I’m pretty sure the pages of this book are laced with your laughter, love, several pounds of cheese fries, and lots of extra napkins (because laptops + coffee = frenemies).

  Somewhere between the first draft and this one, I went from high school French teacher to cubicle warrior, and I owe everyone in both of those worlds a tremendous debt of gratitude. I’m sorry there’s not enough space here to list all of you! To my teacher friends and former students: I miss you all every single day. Thank you for cheering me forward, always. To Matt: thank you for seeing left-brained potential in a mightily right-brained person and for adding me to your team. To my corporate colleagues: I never expected to find such kind souls in a world of spreadsheets and fiscal acronyms. You have no idea the difference your quiet encouragement has made in my life.

  To the educators who influenced this story in a million ways only I can see – Norma Browning, Marie-Madeleine Charlier, Sharon Cooper, Maurice Elton, Monsieur Gutman, Catherine Healey, Judy Kencke, Jan Marston, Donna McBride, Margie McCabe, Yvonne McDonald, Nancy O’Connor, Kay Pfaltz, Isabelle Roynier, Charles Sala, and Monsieur Senninger – merci mille fois for pouring your souls into mine.

  I dedicate Meredith & Pete’s love of Big Band to the late Leon Breeden and Peanuts Hucko and to Louise Tobin Hucko and Jim Riggs. May we carry on your legacy.

  To the people of Lincoln City, Oregon and the staff at the Ester Lee: for me, you are the supporting cast of Meredith’s world. Thanks for your hospitality while I wrote the first draft.

  To my cousin, Jimmy McWhinney: you will never know how much your consistent, intentional check-ins have spurred me forward. Thank you for saying what I need to hear without reproach. I’m so proud of who you are. Sorry I bossed you around when we were little.

  To Susan Cordre: I may be an only child, but you are my sister in every way that counts. Thank you not only for listening but for hearing me. You slogged through my wonkiest draft and still insisted I write a sequel. Bless you for making me laugh, and for always being my bulldog cheerleader.