My shoulders tighten as those far too familiar words echo in my mind.
Those were words Richard used, and I wince as I fall back in time to more than a year ago. I was invited to New York to speak at a conference. He wanted to tag along, he’d said. See the sights while I spoke on a panel and attended meetings. He’d visit the Empire State Building, see Central Park, stroll around the Village. But the day of my panel, he woke up and said he was in too much pain to go anywhere. He’d stay behind at the hotel. Don’t worry about me, he said. He texted me on my way to the conference. It’s not so bad. I’ll be fine. He texted me when I arrived at the Javits. Spoke too soon. Back is killing me. I told him to consider calling a doctor. He texted me minutes before my presentation. Can barely move now.
Please call a doctor, I texted before I went on stage.
It was the worst presentation I’d ever done. I was so worried about him.
As soon as it ended and I emerged from the cavern of the convention center, I called him. He didn’t answer. My heart hammered with worry, with fear that he’d truly taken some sort of turn for the worse. After a gnarly cab ride to the hotel and a mad dash through the lobby to the elevators, I found him sound asleep in the room.
When he awoke later that day, he said he’d turned the ringer off to take a nap, but he felt better and was ready for dinner.
We had sushi that night, and he asked how my talk went. I didn’t bother telling him that I sucked. He felt better, and that was all that mattered.
In fact, he’d said at dinner that night that he would feel well enough to go to Paris in a few months. But when the trip drew near, he claimed flying made his back worse. He’d need more pills before he could fly. So many more, he’d told me. So many that I should go on without him.
I didn’t.
I don’t know what Richard is doing now. He’s still in Austin, and I’m far, far away.
Right here, right now, I decide Archibald the Baguette Eater would have happily waited in line with me, cheerfully climbed the steps, and playfully confessed his name to me at the belfry. By the gargoyles, he’d have whispered it in my ear.
When I reach the main entrance, I don’t go inside the church. I march up the corkscrew stone staircase, my breath coming faster as I scale the more than four hundred fan-shaped steps. But I won’t let a few stairs stop me from seeing the gargoyles at the top of the towers.
I happen to like gargoyles.
They’re badass sentries, fiercely standing guard over the holiest of holy places. As light shines at the top of the stairs, my breath comes hard and fast, my thighs burning from the climb. When I reach the gallery on the north tower, I’m outside at the top of the most famous church in the world, and it’s spectacular. The city unfurls hundreds of feet below me, the river winding through Paris, the Eiffel Tower standing tall at the edge, the Louvre staking its famous claim by the water, the hills of Montmartre rising high.
It’s breathtaking.
I stare off in the distance, delighting in the view, when something catches my attention out of the corner of my eye. I snap my gaze in its direction.
I’m looking at an elephant.
Holy smokes. There’s an elephant perched next to a gargoyle.
It’s a stone elephant, sitting on his big butt.
He’s not grotesque. He’s simply . . . an unexpected elephant.
And that’s exactly what I wanted to see. Something that surprised me. Something that makes me rethink my day, my opinion. I grab my phone and snap a shot of the elephant. This photo isn’t a reminder for my to-do list. This shot has meaning—it signifies the opposite of regret.
I can’t regret the cancelled vacation.
If I’d have come here with Richard, he wouldn’t have ventured up these steps, and I’d have felt bad going without him. That’s on me. I would have wanted to climb them, but I’d have chosen to stay on the ground with him.
Now, I feel sated, because of this elephant. It feels like my reward. Maybe even a reminder to shuck off the guilt that sometimes weighs on me. Let it go, and focus on the future.
Honestly, my only regret so far in my first twenty-four hours in Paris is that I didn’t snag Archibald’s phone number. That man was more delicious than the croissant, and it would have been fun to have a glass of wine or a cup of coffee with him.
I give myself a virtual smack. I don’t have time to let my mind wander to romantic interludes and flirty men. Extricating myself from a toxic relationship had felt like a Herculean feat at times, but I succeeded. Now I’m on the other side of manipulation, of lies, of the huge albatross of guilt that anchored me to Austin for far longer than it should have.
When I reach the ground, my phone buzzes. There’s a text from my sister.
* * *
Allison: I miss you so much it hurts, but you look like you’re having a blast! Keep the pictures coming and keep on enjoying life!!
* * *
I tell her I miss her with the depth of a black hole, but that I’m loving it here, too. I resolve to keep snapping photos—but to make sure they matter, that I’m both capturing life and living it well. I post the elephant as the fitting first image on my Instagram feed—#firstdayinparis #unexpectedsights #greatviews #lookaround.
When I close the app, I spot a message from the man with the rental company.
* * *
Stephen: Bonjour! The flat we arranged for you is all ready for tomorrow’s meeting. The studio is perfect.
* * *
I furrow my brow. I didn’t plunk down a security deposit on a studio. I opted for a one-bedroom on the third freaking floor.
* * *
Joy: I look forward to it. You mean the one-bedroom on the third floor?
* * *
His reply is instant.
* * *
Stephen: Yes, the studio on the second. It is beautiful.
* * *
I sigh. Call me crazy, but I think Stephen might be trying to yank me around. I want to call Marisol and ask her advice, but I don’t want to be a burden. I sort of wish the sweet little old lady from the plane had given me her business card, since she seemed the fairy godmother type, and I bet she’d know how to magic wand her way out of this mess for me.
But alas, I’ll need to handle this little situation on my own.
Back at the hotel room, I find an email from Marisol. The agency already has a new translator for me. His name is Griffin, and he studied biology in school so he knows the complicated technical lingo for the job. That’s key. Though it’s not necessary for him to understand how chemical reactions work, a scientific background and competence with terms that might flummox other linguists is an absolute necessity. Also, he’s quite good at idioms, both in French and English, Marisol writes. If I approve, the agency can let him know.
I tap my finger to my lip, a plan brewing. I wonder if he’s good at dealing with rental agents trying to screw an American over. I hope this new translator is like Archibald, ready to save a lady about to commit a faux pas.
I call Marisol and tell her Griffin sounds great. “Will you ask if he can meet me tomorrow morning?”
“Yes. He’s ready to start right away.”
I give her the address of the rental. “Nine thirty. I can’t wait to meet him.”
6
Griffin
* * *
When someone you love dies, you hear more platitudes than you’ll ever want to hear in your entire life.
When one door closes, another opens.
It was his time.
Someday, this pain will make sense.
As for the last one, what the hell? How does that even make sense in a store selling pillows with stitched-on platitudes? In a shop peddling magnets with sayings? Who buys that, let alone believes it?
But someone must because it’s been served up to me. I’ve heard my fair share of clichés in the last year since my younger brother, Ethan, died in a mostly unexpected way.
And I grin and bear it, every time.
Because ultimately, people mean well when they utter hackneyed sayings in the wake of a loss. What they mean is I’m so sorry.
Yeah, me, too.
Still, I’m not a fan of banalities. I could do without hearing one, say, ever again.
But back at my flat later that afternoon, a particular one pops into my head when Jean-Paul calls, though it has nothing to do with life and death.
He tells me that because Annalise has been put on bed rest, he has an assignment to fill. An American chemist needs a translator who can handle on-site work, and someone familiar with scientific lingo. The job as this woman’s personal translator will last for at least three months as she transitions from the US to France. The company wants a translator for four hours a day, leaving the rest of the time free for me to work on written translations for other clients, spanning a variety of industries. Most gigs are short-term, lasting only a few days, resulting in occasional days off without pay. But this assignment is plum. Three-month jobs don’t come around often, and the regularity, coupled with the chance to keep up with afternoon work, means I can sock away the rest of the money I need for my trip.
When one door closes, another opens.
Plus, the pay is higher than average since it requires special knowledge. I’m not a scientist. Not even close. But I have a ridiculously handy degree in my pocket that helps immensely when it comes to scientific terminology—marine biology.
When I finished school, I didn’t have a sodding clue what I wanted to study at university, so I picked something that might transport me to interesting places. To all the spots around the globe that I’d earmarked to visit someday. The sapphire waters along the coast of Greece. The islands that make up Indonesia. Belize, a scuba diver’s paradise. Growing up outside London, we didn’t partake in scuba too often, but that sounded precisely like what a marine biologist ought to be doing all day long—exploring warm waters.
My choice of study might also have come from the weather. That winter was an unusually cold one in England when I selected my major subject, and marine biology sounded tropical.
So, yeah. My reasons were clearly thorough.
I never wound up exploring coral reefs off the coast of Australia or swimming with the sea turtles in the Cayman Islands. But after university I landed a gig at an aquarium, translating its descriptions of exhibits. The degree has helped me nab many sweet translation gigs since I’ve kept up my fluency in scientific names and terminology.
This new job sounds promising.
“The client knows only enough French to be dangerous,” Jean-Paul says.
“I know the kind.”
“Indeed. The kind who orders in French then thinks she can sustain an entire conversation about politics because she managed to correctly ask for salmon.”
I laugh. “Well, you know the saying. It’s a big upstream jump from salmon to politics.”
Her name is Joy, and my first order of business will be to help her sort out some confusion with the apartment rental company. That should be a breeze, and a chance to impress her so she’ll happily keep me around for the entirety of the contract.
The next morning, I head out early, and since I’m not due to meet the client for another twenty minutes, I grab a table at a café near the place she’s going to be renting. As I drink my tea, I work through a French crossword puzzle that requires some seriously intense linguistic gymnastics. But I like this kind of mental stretching—it keeps my mind limber and ready for whatever challenges a job might throw my way. As I fill in each clue, I make note of the words in other languages I know—Spanish, Italian, some Portuguese—so I don’t forget the ones I’m not actively working in.
When I finish, I close the app and drain the rest of the tea. As I do, two thoughts occur to me. The first is that tea has rapidly improved in this country and can finally hold a candle to what I grew up drinking. The second is that another door is reopening right now.
A sexy-as-hell door.
I rub my eyes.
It’s a mirage.
But it’s not a mirage. It’s real, and it’s brilliant luck.
Judy is strolling down the street, heading in my direction. She wears huge green sunglasses, with lenses the size of pizza pies. Her hair is twisted high on her head, with several loose strands escaping to curl over her shoulders. Dark jeans are lucky again to embrace those long legs of hers, and a ruby-red V-neck blouse completes the I-want-her-number-right-fucking-now look.
I set down my cup, raise a hand over my eyes to shield them from the sun, and call out, “Good morning, Judy. Are you following me now?”
She startles, stops in her tracks, and looks around.
“Over here. I’m five feet in front of you.”
She spins, and her eyes land on me. She blinks, then a smile crosses her lips. “Perhaps you’re following me. You did look like a stalker, Archie.”
I stand and offer her the chair next to mine. I’m not letting her go this time. I have fifteen minutes before I meet the scientist lady, and I’m going to get Judy’s number and land a date with her. Nothing less. “Would you like to join me?”
She peers into the white ceramic cup in front of me. “Of course you drink tea.”
“As if there’s anything else to drink in the morning.”
“I only drink coffee.”
“Funny, they have that here, too,” I say, nodding at the red awning over Café Rousillon.
She checks her watch, and the furrow in her brow tells me she’s adding up the minutes.
Time to press onward.
“This place is fast. And it’s good coffee, I’m told,” I say, determined to convince her. I shoot her a grin, finishing with the real reason I want her to pull up a chair. “Besides, if you join me for coffee, there’s a good chance I can convince you to tell me your real name and give me your phone number.”
She laughs. “You’re a determined one.”
“When I want something, I can be.”
Her smile widens. “Since I’m early for my appointment, let’s see how convincing you, and the coffee, can be.”
She takes the seat and I sit, too, rubbing my palms. “All right, let’s do this. Any particular type of coffee suit your fancy? Café crème, café au lait, café noisette?”
She lowers her shades, peering at me over the tops of those frames. “By coffee, I thought you meant a big fat Frappuccino caramel mocha, since that’s quintessentially American, right?”
“Of course. And order it just like that.”
She laughs and takes her sunglasses off all the way. Her green eyes are intense, some of the darkest irises I’ve ever seen.
“Your eyes are stunning. Hard to look away from,” I tell her.
“Your baby blues aren’t so bad, either, Archie.”
“Thank you, and while I’m being blatantly honest, let me just say I had been hoping our conversation yesterday would have lasted longer.” A small part of me still finds it odd to opt for such directness with a woman, but then, life is short. No point playing games anymore. “I quite enjoyed chatting with you.”
She inches closer. “And while you’re being blatantly honest, I’ll do the same. I enjoyed chatting with you as well, so I’d say it’s a good thing we’ve bumped into each other today.”
The waiter weaves through the tables, and I catch his attention, quickly ordering another tea. I turn to my companion. “How do you take your coffee?”
“Black, please, with a little cream,” she asks, hopefully.
I sigh heavily. “That’s a tough one to order,” I joke, then I tell the waiter what she wants.
When he leaves, Judy is staring at me.
“What is it?”
She shakes her head. “It’s just funny. You’re like my personal food translator.”
I laugh. “That’s my job.” I fix on a stern expression. “And I take it quite seriously.”
“I’ll keep you with me then. Even though I could have ordered a café au lait. I’m not that t
errible at French, am I?”
“I don’t really know how terrible you are,” I say, teasing. “We can find out if we do this again. I’d love to take you out. Would you like to have dinner with me?”
Her lips part, and I’m practically waiting to catch her yes in my hands. But it doesn’t come. Just a rush of air over her lips, then she presses them together, and stares down the street. She flicks her gaze back to me. “You don’t even know how long I’m in town.”
“You don’t know how long I’m in town, either,” I counter.
“True.”
“So, is that a no? Also, to answer you, I live here. For the moment.”
Her lips quirk up. “I live here, too. For the moment, as well.”
“Then we should go out again. After all, how can we be assured we’ll bump into each other again? You have to admit this was pretty damn good luck this morning.”
She smiles. “It does seem strangely promising.”
The waiter returns with our beverages, and Judy raises her little cup to clink with mine. “To chance encounters.”
“I’ll drink tea to that.”
After a swallow, I put down the cup and look her in the eyes again. “You haven’t said yes. Do you have something against devilishly clever men who are exceptionally good at ordering both hot beverages and delicious pastries?”
She laughs loudly this time, and the older couple at the table next to us scowl in unison. Judy brings her hand to her mouth, feigning embarrassment. She collects herself, and her expression shifts. There’s a twinkle in her green eyes. “I’m not opposed, but I still don’t know how well you could navigate a chocolate shop, for instance.”
Wanderlust Page 4
