She shook her head. “Non.”
The vendor moved on.
She watched him pause at the next table. A couple sat there. They were young, probably still in their teens, and very much in love. They stared at each other as if the rest of the world had long since ceased to exist. The young man bought the bouquet and placed it in his girlfriend’s hands. She kissed him.
Kayla turned away from them and forced herself to look at the shops across the street. Dresses and shoes were displayed provocatively behind sparkling-clean windows. Paris was a shopper’s paradise, she thought to herself, then glanced down at her tailored pantsuit. An impulsive spending spree in an exclusive boutique had provided her with several sophisticated outfits, matching shoes and handbags. The afternoon had cost about as much as she’d made in the previous three months, but she refused to worry about that. She had her trust fund. Her goal had always been to enjoy life.
“Postcards,” she said softly. “Someone has to write them, and you seem to be the only person volunteering.”
She reached into her handbag for a pen. Her fingers closed over a thick envelope instead. The pictures from her going-away party. She’d already looked at them a hundred times, but she couldn’t help pulling them out again.
Mr. Peters and Mrs. Grisham dancing together. Jo from the clinic, talking with Sarah, probably making plans. Jo had taken over the visits to Sunshine Village. The sisters laughing together. She touched the smooth paper, remembering the good time she’d had that night. So many people had come to see her off. So many people cared about her. There were no photos of the dogs, but she often thought about them, too.
“I miss you guys,” she whispered, wishing her sisters were with her right now. Paris wasn’t much fun for someone on her own.
She glanced around at the city and tried to convince herself it was as wonderful as she’d always imagined. But it wasn’t. She didn’t speak the language well, she didn’t know anyone. At the end of the day, there was no one to ask what she’d done, no one to talk to, no one to hold.
Maybe it was her own fault. She had the list of Patrick’s friends and Sarah’s friend’s granddaughter, but she’d avoided making definite plans with any of them. What was her problem? What was she waiting for?
She set the photos on the table, then found her pen and started to write. First to her sisters, then maybe Sarah.
But instead of “Dear Elissa” or “Dear Fallon,” what appeared on the card was “Patrick.”
Patrick—Here I am in Paris. It’s beautiful and the people are much nicer than everyone told me. I’ve been to the Louvre twice. As I write this, I’m sitting in a little cafe watching the world go by.
And I miss you more than I thought I could ever miss anyone.
The last sentence went unwritten. Partly because she didn’t think he would care all that much, partly because tears filled her eyes and it was difficult to see.
She slammed the pen onto the table. Her fingers hit the pile of pictures and the top one slid to one side, exposing the photo underneath. She didn’t need to blink away the tears to be able to make out the subject. She’d memorized that particular shot on the plane.
She and Patrick held each other close as they danced. The background blurred, leaving only the couple in focus. They looked right together, their bodies blending with the familiarity of lovers. She closed her eyes and remembered what it had felt like to be with him. To love him, not just physically, but with her heart and her soul.
“This is crazy,” she muttered, and thrust the photos back in their envelope. “Get a grip, kid, or you’re never going to make it.”
She scrawled an inane sentence about the weather, signed her name, then addressed the postcard and set it to one side. Next, she wrote her sisters, Sarah and Allison, and sent a group postcard to Sunshine Village and the clinic. She had just pulled out several stamps when someone placed a bouquet of flowers on the table.
She glanced up and stared into the face of the most handsome man she’d ever seen. He was tall, with dark hair pulled back in a ponytail and black eyes. A white cotton shirt emphasized the breadth of his shoulders and chest before disappearing into the waistband of his jeans. He should have looked like a dangerous pirate, but the boyish smile he gave her chased away any fears.
“Vous permettez?” he asked, motioning to the flowers.
Kayla’s French was improving, but she had a long way to go. She thought he was asking permission to give her flowers.
“Merci, non. Je ne suis pas—” She searched her brain for the verb “to want” and found nothing. “Thank you, but I don’t want the flowers.” Great, as if speaking English would help. He frowned, but then the smile returned. “American, non?”
“Yes, ah, oui.”
He pulled a chair over from an empty table, then sat next to her. “Son. I speak English,” he said, his voice thick with a French accent, then laughed. “Un peu.” He held his right thumb and forefinger about an inch apart.
She grinned. “Je parte français un peu. Okay, I admit I speak French less than a little, but I’m trying.”
“Bon.” He shook his head. “Good. I’m Jean.” He held out his hand.
She shook hands with him, then pulled her fingers free. “I’m Kayla.”
“Enchanté.” He repeated her name several times. “Pretty, yes?”
Despite the fact that he was talking about her name, his intense gaze made her wonder if he was referring to something else. “Thank you,” she murmured. “How long have you been in Paris?” “Ten days.”
“Your mari, ah, your husband is with you, non?” She shook her head. “I’m not married.” Jean looked at her single cup of coffee, then took her hand in his again, and squeezed her fingers. “You are alone in Paris? Je suis dé solé. It is not permitted. We could have dinner tonight. The, ah, restaurant is public, non? You would be comfortable avec moi, ah, with me. We talk, we laugh, I explain Paris.”
She didn’t know if he thought he was picking up a rich American on her own or if he was genuinely a nice man.
Maybe even a prince in disguise. It didn’t matter. He wasn’t the one she wanted.
She looked at the flowers, then at Jean, and pulled her hand from his. “I can’t,” she said.
“Tomorrow?”
She shook her head. The tears returned, and when one slipped down her cheek, he frowned. “Kayla? What is wrong?”
“Nothing.” She collected her postcards and photographs and shoved them into her purse. After throwing a few bills on the table, she stood up and started for the exit.
“Kayla?”
Jean sounded confused, but he didn’t come after her. Thank goodness. She was crying so hard, she couldn’t see where she was going.
She kept wiping her face and walking. After ten or fifteen minutes, she gained enough control to look around and try to figure out where she was. Her hotel was only a couple of blocks away.
When she sank onto her bed, she buried her face in her hands and sobbed. This wasn’t what she wanted. She missed everyone back home. She missed her life. Traveling was fine, but not without someone to share it with. Not without someone to love.
“Oh, Patrick.” Her voice cracked.
She reached for the phone. It didn’t matter if he didn’t love her in return. She just had to hear his voice and tell him what he meant to her. In time, they could be friends again. She would rather have him as a friend than not have him at all.
She spoke haltingly with the hotel operator and asked to be connected to an international phone line. It was late afternoon in Paris. The clinic would just be opening. After several misdirections and sudden hang-ups, trying her patience to the point where she wanted to scream, she heard a ring, followed by a familiar voice saying, “Walcott Animal Clinic. May I help you?”
“Cheryl?”
Silence.
“Cheryl? Can you hear me?”
“Kayla? Is that you?”
“Yes. I’m in Paris.”
Cheryl l
aughed. “Girl, what on earth are you doing phoning here? If I was in Paris, I would be looking for a handsome Frenchman to show me why those people have a reputation for being such great lovers.”
“I could give you a name,” she muttered, then cleared her throat. “Is Patrick there yet?”
“Patrick?” Cheryl said the name as if she’d never heard it before.
“Your boss. Is he in?”
“No. He’s not here.”
“Is he still at the house?” She could probably catch him there. She had to talk to him. She had to tell him how she felt.
“I thought you knew,” Cheryl said.
Kayla’s chest tightened. “What are you talking about? Knew what?”
“He’s in Washington, D.C., trying to get his grant money restored.”
“What?” Kayla stared at the phone. What was she talking about? Grant money restored? But that was all taken care of.
Then different memories filtered into her consciousness. Patrick being late to her going-away party, and his preoccupation that night. Elissa’s odd behavior before Kayla left on the plane. As if her sister were hiding something.
“Never mind,” Kayla said. “I know who to call. Do you know where he’s staying?”
“Yes, but he’s coming home in a couple of days. If you wait, you can phone him here.”
“Thanks. I’ll talk to you soon, Cheryl.”
Kayla hung up and quickly reconnected with the operator. The call went through faster this time. In less than two minutes, she was speaking with her sister.
“How’s Paris?” Elissa asked. “Are you having a wonderful time?”
“No, but that’s not important. I called the clinic and found out that Patrick’s in Washington because he’s having trouble with his grant. What do you know about that?”
Elissa sighed. “I wanted him to tell you before you left, but he wouldn’t hear of it. I’m sorry, Kayla. He made me promise not to say anything. Of course, I didn’t promise not to fill you in if you asked.”
She went on to explain about the embezzlement and the delay in funding.
“So he’s in Washington to see what he can do?” Kayla asked, stunned by the information.
“Right. He’s working with the original foundation. They’re also helping him with emergency funding through other sources.”
While Elissa told her what was going on, Kayla paced beside the bed, walking as far as the phone cord would let her before turning around and heading for the nightstand. Now disbelief made her sink to the floor.
“Why didn’t he want me to know?” she asked.
“He knew you’d want to help.”
“Oh, and that’s a bad thing?” He hadn’t trusted her. Why?
“He thought you’d delay your trip and try to give him money,” Elissa said softly. “He didn’t want to ruin your plans.”
“You mean he didn’t want me hanging around.” She knew she sounded bitter, but she couldn’t help herself. She’d thought—
Her throat tightened. “I love him, Elissa. I would have done anything for him.”
“Did you ever tell him that?”
“No. I’d sort of hoped he would give me a hint as to how he felt. Everything has changed between us. It happened so fast that I wasn’t sure what was going on. That last night, I hoped he would ask me to stay.”
“Did you offer?”
“I thought about it.”
“So you expected him to take all the risks?”
Kayla didn’t like the sound of that. “Not really.”
“Gee, that’s what it sounds like to me. Maybe you can explain it.”
Kayla picked at the bedspread. “I… I…”
“You were afraid.”
“Yeah.”
“I know that feeling. Fear is powerful. It was easier to avoid the risk, and so very simple to go away. But what did you leave behind?”
That was an easy question. “The man I love.”
“And?”
“I have to tell him how I feel. But I can’t. He’s in Washington. He’s coming home in a couple of days. Should I call him, or just come back?”
“That’s your decision.”
Kayla squeezed her eyes shut. She thought about Patrick, about what he meant to her, about the years they’d been together. “He’s the best man I’ve ever known. How could I have been such a fool?”
“We all make mistakes,” Elissa said, and it was obvious she wasn’t just talking about Kayla’s situation.
“Thank you for telling me what happened with him. And for listening. I’m going to get a flight back tomorrow. I should be in San Diego sometime the day after.”
“Call and let me know what happens.”
“I will.”
They chatted for a couple more minutes, then hung up. Kayla got up and found her French phrase book. For the third time, she braved the hotel operator, requesting a connection with the airlines.
***
Patrick waited until the plane had emptied before grabbing his carry-on bag and heading for the gangway. Once in the terminal, he walked slowly toward the baggage claim and the car park beyond.
It had been a grueling five days. He’d spoken to dozens of people, met with committees, told his story over and over, until he was hoarse.
His hard work had paid off. The funding had been restored. He’d called his contractor from the Washington airport; work should start back up in the morning.
So why wasn’t he excited? This was his dream come true, after all. Everything was going according to plan.
He passed a bank of phones and wished he had someone to call. His employees would be happy when he told them, but that wasn’t the same as having one special person to share the moment. When he got home, he would be alone. There was no one to hold, no one to love. Maybe he should get a dog. There were plenty of strays in the clinic kennels. He could pick one out this afternoon.
But a dog would be a poor substitute for who and what he really wanted.
Without meaning to, he pictured Kayla. Her golden-blond curls, her smile, her laughter, the way she always weaseled out of doing the dishes. The scent of her skin, the feel of her body next to his, the way she gave herself completely, unselfconsciously, the way she held him as if she never wanted to let go.
The picture shifted unexpectedly, and he saw his father. Old before his years, walking through life like a spirit biding time until he could be with the woman he loved.
“Dammit, she’s not dead,” Patrick said out loud. Several people turned to stare at him, but he ignored them.
The realization slammed home like a gunshot. Kayla wasn’t dead. His father hadn’t had a choice. There was no way to be with his love, but Patrick was suffering simply because he’d chosen to be noble. Or maybe he’d just chosen to be stupid. After all, he’d never told Kayla how he felt. Maybe she wanted to know that he loved her. Maybe she had feelings for him, too, but was afraid to be the first one to confess them.
He understood all about being afraid, and he was sick of it. He was sick of suffering and being noble, and maybe even of being a fool. By God, he was going to tell her the truth. If she rejected him, then at least he would know. He might spend the rest of his life missing her, but he wouldn’t have the added agony of wondering, “What if?”
“I don’t care if she travels,” he muttered. “As long as she comes home to me.”
He scanned the signs overhead and saw the one pointing to the international terminal. Walking quickly, he headed that way.
“Patrick?”
He turned toward the familiar sound, scanning faces, wondering if his mind was playing tricks on him.
“Patrick, I’m right here.”
He looked at a woman separating herself from the crowd. She wore a blue suit with matching high heels. Golden curls had been trimmed to shoulder length and tamed into a sophisticated style. She wore makeup and jewelry. His heart recognized her first, and then he saw the gold and diamond bangle on her wrist and was sure.
She laughed and flew toward him. “Yes. I just got in a couple of hours ago. I called the office and Cheryl gave me your flight number. When you didn’t get off the plane, I didn’t know what to do.”
“I got off, but I was last.”
She stopped in front of him. “I should have waited longer.”
They stared at each other. His heart thundered in his chest. The awful pain that had seeped down into his bones began to fade. He opened his arms, and she slammed into him.
“Why are you back?” he asked, holding her tightly against him. Her scent, her heat, the feel of her, comforted him, thrilled him. Even if it was just for today, it was perfect.
“I had to come back.” She buried her face against his chest. “I missed everyone. No, that’s not true. I missed you, Patrick.” She looked up at him. “Why didn’t you tell me about the funding?”
There were a thousand things he could have said. Half truths, almost truths. He was done with that. “Because I love you. Because I wanted you to have your dream.”
“Oh, Patrick.” She raised up on tiptoe and brushed his mouth with hers. “I love you, too.”
It was as if the band around his chest had been unlocked. It fell away, freeing him to breathe, to feel, to love.
“I was such a fool,” she said.
“No, I was.”
She shook her head. “It was me. I spent so much time putting my life on hold to wait for a magical future, I never bothered to notice I already had a wonderful present. I don’t need Paris, or any of that. I have lots of people who care about me. I have a job I love, and—” She paused. “Do you really love me?”
“More than anything.”
“Friendship, love, or something more?”
The doubt in her eyes pained him. “I love you the way a man loves a woman, Kayla. Romantically and passionately. I want you in my life. I want us to be part of each other.”
Her smiled nearly blinded him. “I want that, too. I don’t deserve you, but I want to be with you always.”
He desperately wanted to believe her. ‘ ‘What about your prince?”
The Girl of His Dreams Page 21
