That Weekend in Paris (Take Me There(Stand-alone) Book 3)

by Inglath Cooper

“That’s not how I see it,” I say.

  “It’s how it is,” she fires back. “Is it so shocking to you that someone else might want me?”

  “No,” I say quietly. “It’s not shocking to me at all.”

  She’s silent then for a stretch of moments, and I can feel her grappling for words. “Is this really just an attempt on your part to get me to not go into competition against you?”

  “No,” I say. “It’s not. People deserve second chances, Dillon. That’s all I’m asking for.”

  “So what happened to the fact that you were bringing your lover to Paris less than forty-eight hours ago?”

  I hesitate, several long beats of silence hanging between our phones. “I guess I started trying to picture myself there with her, and I couldn’t. I could only see myself there with you.” He expects a sharp comeback from Dillon, but he doesn’t get one.

  Her voice is soft when she says, “How am I supposed to believe that, Josh?”

  “I don’t know. You have every right not to,” I say, “but it’s the truth nonetheless.”

  “You can’t just. . .you’ve hurt me, Josh. Surely you know that.”

  “I do, and I can’t even begin to tell you how sorry I am. I was horrible to you. When you were sick, I should’ve been there for you, and I couldn’t get past my own needs long enough to think about yours.”

  “That’s true,” she says.

  “I am ashamed of myself, Dillon, really. You have no idea. It keeps me awake at night.”

  “That’s not going to change anything, though, is it?” she asks. “I don’t want to spend the rest of my life hating you for the bad times in our marriage, but I admit I’ve wondered whether or not you ever really loved me, Josh, because when you love someone, you do want to take away their pain in any way you can.”

  “I know,” I say. “You’re right. I wish I could go back and do things over again. Honestly, Dillon, it would be so different. I promise you it would. When you get back, can we talk? It doesn’t have to be anything more than that. Just let me know when you can come, and I’ll meet you at the house.”’

  “I don’t want to meet you at the house.”

  “Then, somewhere neutral. You name the place.”

  “I’ll think about it, Josh, but I have to go now.”

  “Okay,” I say. “Please call me, okay?”

  She hangs up without answering.

  I put my phone on the kitchen counter, place both palms against the molding, and drop my head forward, letting out a long breath. I want things to be the way they used to be, before I let Dillon down so badly and before my stupidity with Leanne. Dillon and I had a good life together. It wasn’t perfect, but it was good. And if she’ll give me a chance, I will make her remember that as well.

  Dillon

  “No matter what the work you are doing, be always ready to drop it. And plan it, so as to be able to leave it.”

  ―Leo Tolstoy, The Journal of Leo Tolstoy

  I WALK BACK into the bedroom, sure that I look as confused as I feel.

  “Is everything all right?” Klein asks. He’s sitting on the corner of the bed, pulling on a pair of running shoes. His hair is wet from the shower.

  The simple act of setting eyes on him sends a zing through my center. “Yeah, I guess so. That was Josh.”

  “Ah,” Klein says. “Anything in particular that he called about?”

  “He saw that picture of us, and I don’t know what he started thinking. He asked to see me when I get back to Nashville.”

  Klein keeps his gaze on the shoestrings he’s tying and then looks up at me, his response measured. “Do you want to see him?”

  “I don’t know,” I say, lifting my shoulders in a half shrug. “No, not really. I’m angry at him and can’t imagine what else there is for us to say to each other. But he did apologize, and he sounds like he really meant it. A part of me thinks I should hear him out.”

  “Would you consider going back to him?” Klein asks, his voice neutral.

  “No,” I say, shaking my head. “All the things that were broken between us aren’t fixable.”

  “But you loved him at one time.”

  “Yes, I did, or at least I thought I did. I thought he loved me, but that didn’t pan out when times got tough. I just know now that I don’t want to be with anyone who can’t be there for me through all of it.”

  “You’re right to want that.” Klein looks as if he would like to say more, but he doesn’t. He stands and changes the subject. “So, where are we headed today?”

  “I’ve always wanted to see Versailles,” I say.

  “Then Versailles it is.”

  ~

  IT’S MIDAFTERNOON by the time we finish touring the grounds. I could have stayed so much longer, fascinated by the history, the wealth that must have been needed to build such a palace. It’s actually unimaginable that so much could have been put into a home for the king.

  We’re leaving the grounds when I wonder out loud, “Don’t you think it’s amazing that the people of that time would be okay with so much of the country’s wealth going into the king’s residence. Surely there was poverty that could have been lessened with some of those resources.”

  “Yeah. I’ve wondered about that myself,” Klein says. “I guess people take pride in their country and want their heads of state to be an example to the world.”

  “I think if I were king, I wouldn’t feel too great about living in a place like this when there were people in my country who didn’t have a roof over their heads. I guess it’s like most things human though. We convince ourselves that we deserve certain things even when we really don’t.”

  We take an Uber back to the hotel. It’s almost two o’clock by the time we get to the room. We consider room service for lunch because we’re both tired from our late night. But then I think of all the wonderful places to eat on the streets surrounding us. “Why don’t we walk and see what we find?” I suggest.

  “Sounds good to me,” Klein says. We leave the hotel, decide to turn left in the square. It’s been a beautiful day, and the sun is still bright above us, the sky a vivid, cloudless blue. We walk in silence for the first few minutes. I’m content to take in our surroundings, shops, small local groceries, cafés where people sit outside.

  A few blocks from the hotel, we pass a place to eat that looks particularly inviting. “What about this one?”

  “Sure,” Klein says.

  We wait at the entrance podium until a young woman comes and leads us to a table under the outside awning. We’re seated with our menus when I look at Klein and say, “Is everything all right? You’ve been kind of quiet.”

  “I’m good,” he says. I start to let it go, but then he looks back at me and says, “I guess that’s not really true.”

  “What, then?”

  “The call from Josh. It just reminded me that we have reality to return to, and none of this, what we’ve been doing here, is reality.”

  The statement surprises me. I guess it hadn’t occurred to me that he cared one way or the other. “I wish we could stay.”

  “Me, too.”

  “We’re both scheduled to leave tomorrow,” I say.

  “We are,” he agrees. “You know, I’ve been working on the new album I’m contracted for, and honestly, before this trip, nothing was coming to me. I had kind of reached the point where I thought I would just need to tell my label that I’ve got nothing and let them do with that whatever they wanted to. But after we wrote that song last night, I don’t know, it’s like maybe a valve has been opened up again, and I really have the desire to write. But I’d like to do it with you, Dillon.”

  “Really? In Nashville?”

  “Actually, I was wondering what you would think of taking some time to drive around the countryside, stay wherever we feel like staying, and write while we’re still here.”

  “That would be absolutely incredible,” I say. “I would love to do that.”

  He smiles then, and I realiz
e it’s his first genuine smile of the day, or since this morning, at least. “No one’s expecting you back?”

  “No one who can’t wait,” he says. “And you?”

  “No, not really,” I say, thinking of Josh, and then blinking the thought away as quickly as it has appeared.

  And, as if he has read my mind, Klein says, “Josh?”

  “I don’t feel like I owe Josh anything. But, if he wants to have a face-to-face conversation with me, that can certainly wait.”

  “Good,” Klein says, smiling again. “So, where should we go?”

  ~

  WE ORDER LUNCH from the mouthwatering menu, and while we’re waiting on our food, we start googling places to visit outside Paris. We find a few small towns that sound absolutely wonderful, and then Klein says, “You know, we’re not confined to France. We can go wherever we want. Train, car.”

  I laugh a little. “Hold on, now. If you’re not careful, I might not ever let you get back to Nashville.”

  “I’m starting to think I wouldn’t have a problem with that.”

  A wave of warmth cascades through my midsection, and I don’t think I’m crazy to think that he’s flirting with me. It very much feels like flirting, and I cannot deny that it feels amazing. “Careful what you wish for,” I say.

  “Oh, I am very, very careful,” Klein says. And before I can ask him to elaborate on that, the waitress has returned with our food. We’re both distracted by how wonderful it looks and how hungry we are. I’ve ordered an enormous mixed veggie salad, Klein, an omelet with herbs, and we both dig in as if we haven’t eaten in a week.

  Once we’ve satisfied a bit of our hunger, Klein looks at me and says, “I think I could easily gain fifty pounds here.”

  “Me, too,” I say, “but it would look far better on you than me.”

  “Highly debatable,” he says.

  When we’re finished, we both decline dessert but opt for a coffee. As we’re sipping, I pick up my phone and try another search for great places to visit near Paris. There are so many that sound amazing that it’s almost overwhelming. I spot a link called Horse Vacations, and out of curiosity, click on it.

  “Do you ride?” I ask Klein, without looking up from the screen.

  “Anything in particular?” he asks, and I can feel his smile.

  I look up and meet his gaze with a pointed, “Horses, of course.”

  “I might have been on one or two at a county fair,” he says.

  “Oh my gosh, look at this,” I say, turning the screen to face him. “It’s a château in the Bordeaux region. You can stay there, plus they have horseback riding excursions. For all levels of riders.”

  I scroll through the photos, and he nods once and says, “Let’s go there.”

  “Really?” I say. “It can’t be that easy.”

  “It looks like a great place, and why not? We’ll rent a car and drive. How far is it?”

  “It looks like maybe six hours,” I say. “That might be a little far.”

  “Nope,” he says.

  I lean back and study him for a moment. “You know, you’re amazingly easy.”

  “I hope you mean that in the nicest way possible,” he says.

  “Josh and I could never agree on places to go or restaurants to try. I don’t know,” I say, shaking my head and shrugging a little bit. “It was like it was always a battle for some reason.”

  “Control?” Klein says.

  “I guess. I don’t know. It always seemed like it should be way easier than it was.”

  “It should be,” Klein says.

  “Are you just this easygoing?” I ask.

  “Not when it comes to certain things,” he says. “Like when it comes to picking songs to release, I’m not very easy to deal with. I’m a perfectionist, I guess, and I don’t want to send anything out to my audience that they wouldn’t think was my absolute best effort in a song.”

  “Well, no one could fault you for that. That’s actually a good thing. How about in relationships?”

  “I don’t know that I’m the one to ask about that,” he says. “But no, I’m definitely not the easiest person to be around sometimes.”

  “I haven’t seen that,” I say.

  “Well, you haven’t been in a car with me for six hours, either,” he says.

  I laugh. “True. Tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow,” he says, and smiles.

  Dillon

  “Catherine had never wanted comfort more, and [Henry] looked as if he was aware of it.”

  ―Jane Austen, Northanger Abbey

  WE SPEND THE rest of the afternoon planning for our departure in the morning. I take care of reserving the car. Klein handles contacting the château, and, thankfully, they do have two rooms available. I do notice that he’s asked for two, and, of course, he would. He’s a gentleman.

  But some part of me admittedly wants this uninterrupted time I’ve had with him since we’ve been sharing a room to continue. I have no right to expect it. And our sharing a room had been necessary. Now that reality is setting back in, it is time to admit that basically, we are two friends who’ve ended up in an unexpected situation together. And now that we’ve agreed to write some songs, we’re going to take a bit of time to do that. Nothing more, Dillon, I tell myself.

  By the time we finish making all the arrangements, it’s after eight o’clock, and we’re both not very hungry because we’d had a late lunch. We decide to order a pizza and share it. We’re sitting on the bed with the pizza between us, each of us taking a slice, when Klein says, “I’m really psyched about this. I can’t remember the last time I did anything spontaneous. Mostly by necessity, but most of my life seems to be planned down to every minute of every hour.”

  I sense that he’s serious, so I decide not to make light of this. “I guess that’s one of the pitfalls of being famous,” I say. “You have so many people wanting something from you, and there’s only so much of you to go around.”

  “True, but, you know,” he says, “I feel like I owe people who helped me along the way. And I do want to pay back as much of that as I can, but—”

  “People get used to asking, don’t they?”

  “It’s not that I don’t understand. I remember what it feels like to be hungry for success, to be looking for any notch in the ladder that might help me climb a little faster. Admittedly, the more successful I’ve become, the harder it is for people to reach me. But, I don’t know, I guess when someone does ask for help, I feel obligated because of my own good fortune to do what I can. To those whom much is given, much is expected?”

  “I feel the same,” I say. “But, of course, my success is not in the same stratosphere as yours.”

  “What you’ve accomplished is amazing. I certainly haven’t been named songwriter of the year.”

  “Thanks,” I say. “It’s not. . .I don’t mean to demean what I’ve done. It’s just, it is all relative, you know. And you do so much for others, Klein. I do try to find things that I think might be a little unique to me as far as how I can help others. There’s a program for creative kids who might not have the financial means to develop those talents outside of regular school. I do some work with them a couple of afternoons a week, and it’s been incredibly rewarding. You wouldn’t believe how crazy talented some of these kids are. There’s this one little boy named Raymond who, honestly, could be the next van Gogh. He paints, and he just has this unique fingerprint for his art that, when you see something he’s done, you automatically know it’s his, and you recognize the look. It’s really fascinating, and I have so enjoyed encouraging him and looking for ways to bring out his talent even more.”

  “That is wonderful,” Klein says. “I’ve often thought about how many kids might have even the same set of talents that I have, if I have any,” he modestly corrects himself, “and just never get the chance to be heard or seen. It’s such a waste.”

  “It is. I really believe we all have some talent that is unique to us as individuals, and it mig
ht get beaten down by so many different things. Poverty, someone putting us down at some point early on and making us doubt our abilities. I was lucky to have a mother who really was the opposite of that. She wanted me to be the next Dolly Parton.” I laugh a little and shake my head. “Minus the obvious attributes, of course.”

  Klein smiles. “Tell me about her.”

  “My mom?”

  “Yeah.”

  “She was amazing, really. She didn’t grow up with much, and we didn’t have a lot materially when I was little. She worked full-time at a sewing factory in our town. She made all my clothes, and we would go to Leggett’s on Saturday mornings to pick out a new pattern and fabric for something she would make me the following week. It was like I had my own Vogue catalog and seamstress willing to create whatever I had a fancy for that Saturday, whether it was a pair of shorts with daisies around the hem, or a sundress made from purple velvet. She was willing to make it for me.

  “I actually think I get my creativity from my mama. She never had the opportunity to use hers beyond the things that she did for me, and the way she decorated our house. But she had an amazing talent for those things. And if she’d had opportunities when she was in school, and then the chance to go on to college, I know she would have been able to use her creativity in other ways as well.”

  “Is that why you’ve chosen the volunteering that you do?”

  “It is,” I say. “I mean, selfishly, I kind of had my mom all to myself, and she loved doing those things for me so much. But sometimes I wish she could have been recognized by others as well for her contributions to the world.”

  “Is your mom still—”

  “No,” I say. “She died five years ago. Cancer.”

  “I’m sorry,” Klein says.

  “There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t miss her with this hole inside me that I know will never be filled. She used to use country music songs to give me lessons in life. She said country music songwriters were better than therapists, that they already had all the problems defined and the answers figured out. So, if I would just keep listening to country music, I would never need a therapist.”