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

by Inglath Cooper

  “What happened to her?” I ask softly.

  “She died when I was a senior in high school. She colicked one night, and no one found her until the next day. I felt so guilty because I had stopped going out there as much. I guess I felt like I had abandoned her.”

  “I’m sure no one else saw it that way. That’s kind of what happens during those years. Things that had been so important before taking a backseat. But it’s just the nature of growing up and trying to figure out how to make your way in the world.”

  Tears well in her eyes. She shakes her head as if to try and push the memories away.

  “Hey,” I say. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to dredge up painful stuff.”

  “No, it’s okay,” she says. “It’s just one of those regrets I have in life, and hopefully, I’ve tried to do better by the things I’ve loved since then.”

  “We all have regrets like that somewhere in our past, Dillon. You’re not the only one.”

  I glance out the window toward the green expanse of lawn. “I was probably seven when my dad went to jail. He was really an abusive son of a bitch, but he was still my dad. I guess, honestly, I was happy and sad when they arrested him and put him in the back of the county sheriff’s car. When it became clear that he wasn’t going to be coming home any time soon, he sent word through my mom that he would like for me to come and visit him. She tried to get me to go on the days that she was sober, that is. And I knew that I should, but there was a part of me that really didn’t want to. That was the part I went with. And so, on the night we got the call that he had died in his cell, I was probably eight by then. I realized I was never going to have the chance to redo that decision. At first, it seemed like it couldn’t actually be true. And I wouldn’t be honest if I didn’t admit that some part of me felt glad that I would never have to deal with him again. But what eventually won out was regret, of course, that I hadn’t gone to see him. It was the last thing he ever asked of me.”

  “You were just a little boy. How could you have known?”

  “I couldn’t have, but I didn’t go because, truthfully, I hated him. It’s something I’ve had to live with for the rest of my life, and sometimes I wonder what might have happened if I had gone. Would it have given him the will to turn away from the drugs and try to start over?”

  “That’s an awfully big burden of blame to put on yourself,” she says. “We’re all responsible for the choices we make, and sad as it is, your dad’s choices are what put him there.”

  “I know,” I say. “There’s absolutely no doubt about that, but I guess maybe I’d like to entertain the notion now and then that maybe he would have loved me enough to give it up.”

  “He should have loved you enough to give it up.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “He should have.”

  I reach across the table and take his hand in mine. “Whatever his faults, Klein, he did a great thing by giving you to the world.”

  Riley

  “The best laid schemes o’ Mice an’ Men,

  Gang aft agley.

  An’ lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain,

  For promis’d joy!”

  ―Robert Burns

  IRONICALLY, I AM writing an email to Klein when I feel the first pain slice through my midsection. It completely takes my breath away. I gasp, short and hard. I sit for a moment, wondering if it could be something I’ve eaten that upset my stomach and has nothing at all to do with the baby. I wait a full minute for the pain to recur, but it doesn’t. I sit still for another full five minutes, finally breathing a sigh of relief when it doesn’t happen again.

  I glance at the screen of my laptop, reread the words I have written to Klein, an explanation of the truth about our baby.

  I agonize for a bit over the inability I seem to have for conveying the why behind my actions. But then I wonder if that really matters because I know one thing for sure. When Klein learns of the existence of this baby, he will be willing to forgive me anything. I guess, truthfully, that is all that matters.

  It might just be that the one smart thing I’ve done is to pick a guy with a conscience, with a heart that always wants to do right. He will hate me at first. There’s no denying this. But his relief at learning the truth will win out. Klein is a strong man. There’s nothing soft about him when it comes to getting the things he’s wanted in life, chasing after the career that defines him. But he and I are different in this one respect.

  I’m willing to do whatever it takes to get the things I want in life. Klein has limits, morals, you might say. Places he’s unwilling to go. A shimmer of pain ripples through me, but it’s a shadow of the one from a few minutes ago. I close my eyes and wait, letting myself wonder for just a moment what will happen if I actually lose this baby.

  I cannot imagine having to start over again, find another man who can give me the things I want. Just the thought is exhausting, and I vow anew to take care of this life inside me. I rub my belly, as if the baby can actually feel this. I resolve to eat better, get a book, and read up on whatever nutrients this baby needs. I will do all of that and more. I’m not sure if I’m making this promise to myself or a god I don’t believe in. Either way, I will not let anything happen to this baby. I will not.

  Dillon

  “Let us read, and let us dance; these two amusements will never do any harm to the world.”

  ―Voltaire

  THE PLAN IS to meet André downstairs at eight. I had decided to take a nap, and it’s nearly seven when I wake up in a panic. I jump into the shower, wash my hair, and do my fastest version of getting ready.

  Klein knocks on the door between our rooms a little before eight. I pull it open to see him standing there looking hotter than ever in faded jeans and a white collared shirt.

  “Hey,” he says, “you look great.”

  “Thank you. I wasn’t really sure what to wear,” I say, running a hand across the short skirt I’d found at the bottom of my suitcase.

  “I think you nailed it,” he says, his gaze warm on mine. “Ready to head down?”

  “Let me grab my purse.”

  I duck back into the room, throw a lipstick and my phone inside the clutch, and head for the door.

  André is waiting for us downstairs. A young woman in her twenties stands next to him. André makes the introductions with a smile. “Elizabetta, these are my new friends, Klein and Dillon.”

  And to us, “Klein and Dillon, this is Elizabetta. She couldn’t believe I met the two of you here, so I had to bring her along to prove it.”

  Elizabetta laughs a shy laugh. “Believe it or not, I had tickets for your concert in Paris, but my mother was in a little car accident, and I did not want to leave her until I knew she was okay.”

  “I’m sorry,” Klein says. “I hope she is all right?”

  “She is, thank you. But I thought André must be kidding me to say that you are here at the château. And you,” Elizabetta says, looking at me, “you write songs?”

  “I do,” I say.

  “That is amazing. We love music, André and I,” Elizabetta says, waving a hand between them. “We will have so much fun tonight. Shall we go?”

  We follow André and Elizabetta down the broad stone steps of the château entrance to a dark gray Range Rover waiting at the center of the drive. André thanks the valet who has pulled the vehicle to the front and gets in the driver’s seat. Klein and I slide in the back, and then we’re heading down the long drive that leads to the main road.

  “The place where we are going,” André says, “it will take thirty minutes or so, but the drive is beautiful during the day. At night you can’t see as much, but I will still point out a few things of interest along the way.”

  It is clear as we go along that André loves his country and the town and surrounding countryside where he grew up. He regales us with stories from his childhood and some of the things he used to do as a boy with his parents and grandparents. We pass a wonderful-sounding farmers’ market where the fruits and
vegetables for the château restaurant are still bought today. And farther on, a beautiful, small stone church where his parents were married and the elementary and high schools he attended as a student.

  “I understand why you always want to come back,” Klein says. “We are in a different country, of course, but so much of what you’ve said reminds me of small towns in the United States.”

  “I love in country music,” Elizabetta says, “how so many songs are stories of life in small towns. Did you grow up in a small town, Dillon?”

  “Yes,” I say, “actually, I did.”

  “Do you write about your life there?” Elizabetta asks.

  “I have, and I still do draw on pieces of my childhood. It’s very much a part of who I am.”

  “I have always wondered what it would be like to be a writer and tell stories that other people recognize something of themselves in.”

  “When we get it right, I think that’s what happens. They’re sort of like our children, though. We’re reluctant to consider any of them inferior,” I say with a smile.

  “I am envious,” Elizabetta says, “of your talent.”

  I start to shrug off the compliment, but I can see that she sincerely means it. And so, I simply say, “Thank you so much.”

  ~

  THE CLUB IS a renovated feed mill. The outside walls are stone and look centuries old, but the inside has been brought up to date with red leather chairs and booths, and a large dance floor. The bar is made with what looks like beautiful green sea glass. A copper glass rack dangles from above the bar. Multiple bartenders are busy making drinks. The music has a deep, throbbing beat, and for the first time in longer than I can remember, I really want to dance. I reach for Klein’s hand, pull him toward the dance floor.

  “Contrary to André’s prediction, I’m not the greatest dancer,” he leans in and says near my ear.

  “Neither am I,” I say. “Let’s just have some fun.”

  And that is exactly what we do. For the next two hours or a little more, we are nonstop on the dance floor, the only thing pulling us off is a quick trip to the bar for sparkling water to quench our thirst.

  It’s somewhere after midnight when the DJ decides to slow things down. I instantly recognize the introductory notes of the song as one of Klein’s. “Oh my gosh, it’s yours!”

  Klein looks over his shoulder at André, who is dancing nearby with Elizabetta. André waves a hand, letting us both know that he has requested the song. Klein looks a little uncomfortable, but then pulls me up close, one arm looped around my waist, and we settle into the twang of a Nashville steel guitar behind Klein’s whiskey-smooth voice. It’s a little surreal being somewhere in France dancing to one of the top country songs from last year, and in the arms of the artist singing it.

  I rest my cheek against his chest, flowing in sync with the music, fueling the dancing of everyone around us. For a moment, I let myself wonder what it would be like to have Klein in my life. For him to be the man I have a right to dance with this way. I lean back, looking up at him, and I’m guessing my eyes must be revealing what I’m thinking because Klein dips his head and finds my mouth with his, kissing me full and deep. All my thoughts fall away, and there is nothing except this moment between us, the beat of the music, and I wish, truly wish, we could stay like this forever, that there wasn’t real life waiting for us. Me, in the finality of an ugly divorce, Klein uncertain about his career and the ex-girlfriend whose choices haunt him.

  For now, though, it’s just this, and I tighten my arms around his neck, kissing him back with no desire whatsoever to hide what I’m feeling. I want to give him all the emotion inside me, let him know there is nowhere else I want to be, no one else I want to be with. We both seem to forget there are other people around us.

  For once, I don’t care what anyone else thinks. I only care that Klein knows how much my time with him has meant, how I wish it didn’t have to end. The song is fading into its final notes when he takes my hand and leads me across the dance floor through the hallway that leads to an exit. We make our way outside into the cool night air.

  An ancient stone wall encircles the building that houses the club. Klein leads me to a darkened corner. I lean against the wall. He clamps his hands to my waist and lowers his head, his mouth finding mine, hungry, devouring in a way I have not yet felt from him. This feeling of being wanted is utterly intoxicating, and I loop my arms around his neck, pulling him as close as I can, pressing myself into him, wanting nothing more than to give every part of myself to him.

  For a moment, a very brief moment, I remember what it felt like to wonder if I would ever feel attractive again, and that memory attempts to mar the happiness I feel here with Klein. But I refuse to let it, forcing it away from the present and banishing it to the past, where I know now that it belongs. We kiss for a very long time, the audible beat from the club music thumping around us. It mimics my heartbeat, and when Klein pulls away to look down at me, his voice is low and a little urgent when he says, “Why don’t we catch our own ride back to the château? I really want you alone right now.”

  I can’t bring myself to speak an answer, not trusting my voice. I simply nod, and leave no doubt to myself, or to Klein, that there is nothing I want more.

  Klein

  “Know that everything is in perfect order whether you understand it or not.”

  ―Valery Satterwhite

  IT’S NEARLY TWO A.M. when we get back to the château.

  Dillon and I have said very little the last part of the drive, but I hold her hand on the seat between us. I can feel her pulse throbbing against my palm in perfect rhythm to my own thudding heart. We walk through the lobby, our fingers still entwined, an urgency in my steps now that I can’t deny. We take the long hallway to our rooms, stop in front of my door. I look at Dillon without saying anything. She reads my thoughts and simply says, “Yes.”

  I insert the key in the door, pull her in behind me. Once the lock has clicked into place, I turn for her, my hands on her waist, pulling her to me, our bodies flush against each other. I hear her soft intake of breath and feel the way she melts into me. She pulls me in and kisses me fully, with a desire that lights me up from the inside. I kiss her back, and we engage in a dance of back and forth, our hands no longer still but exploring, touching, pulling loose clothes, my shirt, the zipper of her skirt. I pull her blouse from her shoulders, unbuttoning as I go. I look down to take in the black lacy bra covering her breasts and then lower my mouth to graze the top of each beautiful swell.

  “Dillon,” I say, my voice low and hoarse. “I want you so much. I need you in a way I can’t even understand myself.”

  She lifts my head with a fingertip beneath my chin, looks at me with a long, smoldering look, and says, “You have no idea how nice it is to hear that.”

  And I know the why behind her words, understand that this is something she needs to hear for reasons that don’t apply to the moment. I’m glad that I can give that to her. But it is honest, and only comes from the fact that I find her not only undeniably beautiful but so many of the things I have never imagined finding in a woman altogether in one person.

  “I know this isn’t the right time for us,” I say. “There are too many things unfinished in our real lives, but that doesn’t change the fact that what we’ve found here between us is real, and I want it, Dillon.”

  And then she’s kissing me again. We manage to rid ourselves of the remainder of our clothing. I stand for a moment, staring down at her with no attempt to hide how much I want her. She slides her hands up my chest, clasps them behind my neck. I savor the feel of her body against mine. I lean down and lift her up in my arms, carrying her to the bed, where I place her gently on to the mattress.

  She lies back against the pillow, one arm thrown above her head, no longer self-conscious. I lower myself down beside her, stretch out so that our bodies are aligned. I raise up on one elbow, tracing a finger from the center of her forehead, down her nose, across her full
lips, the tip of her chin, the hollow at the center of her neck. And then around each side of her breasts. She breathes soft and shallow now, and I know that she wants me as much as I want her. But I still need to ask. “Are you sure, Dillon, that this is what you want?”

  “Yes,” she says, adamant now.

  But I can see the worry in her eyes, and say, “The last thing I would ever want to do is take advantage of you.”

  “You’re not,” she says. “I think if I let this night pass me by, I will never forgive myself.”

  I consider this for a moment, then lean down and kiss her with all of the longing inside me, and yet, I know this isn’t the right time. That there will be a time for us somewhere ahead in the future. I don’t know when or how. I just know that it will be. And that the right thing for tonight is to save what we both want so much for the time when we are free and clear. I am about to tell her this when my phone rings.

  Dillon

  “The high road is something very, very long, of which one cannot see the end – like human life, like human dreams. . .Vive la grande route and then as God wills.”

  ―Fyodor Dostoyevsky

  I WATCH AS KLEIN puts down the phone, realizing that something is terribly wrong. It’s the middle of the night, and no call at this time ever heralds anything good. “What happened?” I ask, my voice a little more than a whisper. “Who was that?”

  “Curtis, my manager,” Klein says, sitting on the edge of the bed now, his back to me. He’s quiet for several long seconds before he adds, “He said that Riley is at the hospital in labor—”