Starlight on Willow Lake

by Susan Wiggs

  “How do you know that?”

  “Didn’t you read the welcome packet? It’s got the scoop on all of the interns. Plus, my mother looked them all up on the internet.”

  “Very thorough of her.” Mason didn’t spend much time on the internet. It was slow, and the phone squawked annoyingly when it connected.

  Lisa laughed again. Easily amused, he thought. Too easily. “Mum just wants to make sure I’m spending the summer with the right sort of people.” She nodded toward the Nigerian guy. “His dad is the minister of culture. Malcolm’s mom is an MP and she’s met, like, everybody. We couldn’t find anything on the chick in the burka.”

  “It’s not a burka. She’s wearing a hijab and a niqab.” He couldn’t believe he actually remembered what the scarf and veil were called from his comparative religions course.

  “Well, aren’t you the smarty-pants. I think it’s so weird in this day and age. Repressive.” She shuddered.

  “Could be she has her reasons.”

  “Yeah, like maybe she’s wicked ugly,” Lisa whispered with a smirk.

  Mason had had enough of this chick. “Excuse me,” he said. “Looks like the party is breaking up.” He went over to his dad. “Hey, the jet lag caught up to me. Can we head home?”

  “Sure, buddy.” They said their good-nights and decided to take the metro back to the apartment. It was late, and trains were few and far between, but at the top of the station, they could hear the gnashing and hissing of an incoming train.

  “Come on, son,” his dad said. “Run! We got this.”

  Mason let out a laugh and outran his dad, down the steps and along the tiled passageway, intent on reaching the train first. He did and turned in time to see his father racing along the platform, arm raised up, a big grin on his face. On impulse, Mason flicked on his camera and took a shot, just as the train was pulling in. They jumped on, and he reviewed the photo in the tiny screen. It perfectly captured his dad’s spirit—the energy, the laughter. In the photo, there seemed to be some kind of mysterious shadow falling across him.

  “So we’ve got this weekend free before everything gets started,” his dad said. “I thought we’d drive out to the coast. There’s a great little seaside town in Brittany, and a friend of mine is loaning us a cottage for a few days.”

  That was more like it. “Cool,” said Mason. “Can I drive?”

  “A bit. You’re not exactly legal. You’re supposed to be eighteen to drive in France.”

  “I’ll be cool about it.” His dad reviewed the door keypad and elevator codes to make sure he knew how to get in and out of the place.

  “I’m going to hit the hay, too,” Dad said.

  “I’m wide-awake. I just wanted to get the hell out of that place. It was totally awkward.”

  “Things like that always are. You were a perfect gentleman. Your mother would be proud. Want to call her and check in?”

  “I will.”

  “Afterward, try to get some more sleep.”

  “Okay,” he said. “I’m going to grab a bite to eat first.”

  Dad gave him a quick hug. “’Night, son. See you in the morning.”

  “You bet.”

  Mason ate three small glass jars of yogurt with a box of strawberries. The only cereal was muesli, which was okay, but the only milk was that weird stuff in the shelf-stable carton. The French didn’t know crap about cereal. People might rave about their haute cuisine, but they had never figured out how to create Cinnamon Toast Crunch, which was the only thing worth eating when you were starving late at night.

  He ate a heel of past-its-prime baguette and a hunk of some kind of cheese, then guzzled a bottle of water. He still didn’t feel sleepy at all. He tried calling his mom but got the voice mail. “I’m here,” he said. “Dad said I was a gentleman at the orientation meeting and we’re going to the coast this weekend. Tell Grandpa George I said hi.” He felt a twinge of envy, knowing his mom, brother and sister were in Montauk with Grandpa. He reminded himself he was in Paris, for chrissake, and he’d better learn to like it.

  He tried reading but got bored with that. He tried going on the internet. The dial-up modem squealed and failed to connect, no surprise. It never worked right.

  Outside, the city was as wide-awake as he, the streets bathed in gold from the sodium vapor lights. He tiptoed to his dad’s room, hearing snoring already.

  Mason grabbed a few twenty-franc bills from the hall table and stepped into the elevator. It glided down to the main floor, and he walked outside, not sure where he wanted to go, just wanting to be out in the world. He was still hungry. He thought about food almost as much as he thought about girls. What he really wanted was a big plate of fresh hot pommes frites.

  He was about to cross the building’s service alley when a scooter exited, nearly slamming into him.

  “Hey!” he yelled, jumping back up the curb. “What the hell?”

  “Salaud,” said the driver, a girl. “Watch where you’re going.” She flipped up her visor to glare at him.

  Those eyes. Mason staggered a little on the sidewalk. He knew those eyes. “You’re Katia,” he said in English.

  She sniffed. “Yes.”

  “I’m Mason, remember? From the meeting tonight.”

  “So?”

  He couldn’t help staring because she looked totally different in tight jeans and a shirt that showed her stomach, her hair in a long black stream down her back. Whoa.

  “Montes, vite,” she said. “Get on. Hurry.”

  He didn’t even think twice, but saddled up behind her. She smelled of spicy soap or shampoo. His feet found the footrests, and he grabbed the bar behind him. Okay, finally this night was getting interesting. “Allons-y,” he said.

  She sped away from the building and up the boulevard toward the glowing lights of the city. Mason threw back his head and grinned at the night sky. The summer was not going to suck, after all.

  It didn’t take a rocket scientist to deduce that Katia was sneaking out against her parents’ rules. “That only makes it more fun,” she explained, parking the Vespa in front of an all-night club in St. Germain.

  “Yes, but suppose you get caught,” Mason pointed out. “That won’t be fun.”

  “Agreed.”

  “And if I get caught with you?” he continued, holding open the door for her. “What’ll they do, slit my nostrils?”

  “Don’t be a wanker.”

  “Okay, sorry.”

  “My family—well, mainly my mom, really—is pretty conservative.”

  “Oh. Parents can be a problem.”

  The waiter came, and Katia ordered pastis called Ricard for both of them. It came in tall, skinny glasses with ice, and an angular glass pitcher of water.

  “I’ve never tried this,” he admitted. “You’ll have to show me.”

  She added a splash of water to their drinks and clinked her glass against his. “Cheers.”

  “Cheers.” He took a sip and didn’t try to hide his grimace. “Tastes like throat lozenges.”

  “I suppose it’s an acquired taste.”

  He tried not to stare at her, but it was impossible. The face she hid behind the veil was as beautiful as her eyes. Smooth, creamy skin that looked soft to the touch, a pretty mouth he wanted to... “Do you like the movies?” he asked suddenly.

  “Of course. Doesn’t everybody?”

  “So I saw this one on the flight coming over, Before Sunrise. Have you seen it? It’s still in theaters.”

  “What’s it about?”

  “This guy and this girl meet on a train, and they really hit it off, but they know they only have one night to hang out together. So they get off the train in Vienna, and they hang out all night.” He laughed at himself. “I’m not making it sound as good as it is. It’s really good
. It feels...real, I guess. Not scripted. We should see if it’s playing.”

  “Everything’s playing in Paris,” she said.

  “True. Then we should go.”

  “Why Vienna?”

  “What?”

  “Why did they hang out in Vienna?”

  “Dunno. Could be any city where nobody knows them, and they have the night all to themselves.”

  “Oh. I see. Sounds good.”

  “So if you could do that, hang out with some dude in any city—”

  “Some dude?”

  He grinned. “Okay, me.”

  “And...?”

  “In any city. Which city would you choose?”

  “That’s easy. Paris. It’s my favorite place in the world.”

  “Have you seen a lot of the world?”

  “Enough. To me, this place feels like the center of everything, not just because of the usual touristy things—art, architecture, museums, restaurants. I love the energy here. Around every street corner, you can find yourself a different neighborhood. We’ve been here five years, and I’m certain I’ve only scratched the surface.”

  “Let’s do it, then.”

  “What?”

  “Let’s hang out all night in Paris.”

  “We are hanging out.”

  “In a tourist café. Let’s find something different. We can be back before sunrise.”

  She planted her elbows on the table, rested her chin on her hand. She had delicate fingers with nails like seashells. Her smile seemed to emanate from her eyes, lighting the rest of her face with slow deliberation.

  “All right,” she said.

  He paid for their drinks, and then they headed out on the scooter. He thought it was totally hot that she rode around on a scooter. His dad would freak if he knew Mason was riding behind her without a helmet, but Dad would probably approve of the girl. She was classy, smart, beautiful and fun. And Mason knew instinctively there was a lot more to discover about her.

  She took him way up to the nineteenth arrondissement, a neighborhood called the Mouzaia, where they could find the best Maghrebi food. Maghrebi, she explained, was the term for people from North Africa—Tunisia, Algeria, Morocco. It was also the type of Arabic she spoke. The neighborhood was a side of Paris he’d never seen before—rough and shadowy in places, vibrant and bright in others. They snacked on chickpea cakes and strong sweet coffee, and she introduced him to mahjouba, which was like a crepe filled with spicy tomato jam.

  There was something ridiculously sexy about hearing her natter on to the locals in Maghrebi. Liberally entwined with French words, it was almost comprehensible to him.

  But mostly, she talked to Mason. She looked at him with those incredible dark-lashed eyes and seemed as if she wanted to be with him all night long. “You look so much like your father,” she said. “Do people tell you that a lot?”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “Tell me about your family’s business,” she said. “Is that what you’ll do after university?”

  “It’s what my parents would like me to do. I haven’t made them any promises. When I was little, I thought the family business was making money—like, literally making it. Other people made stuff like clothes or pipe fittings or machines or bread, but my dad would come home from work with nothing but paperwork. International finance sounds boring, but I kind of like the way it all works. My grandfather—and now my dad—is a dream maker. They find ways for people to get the money they need to go after something they want.”

  “A dream maker.” That smile again. “I like how it sounds. What do you dream about, Mason?”

  Girls. Sex. Food. “Lots of stuff,” he replied. “I like seeing the world. Have you ever been to the US?”

  “No, but I would like to go. What’s it like?”

  “Well, I live in New York—Manhattan—the busiest part. It’s a huge, awesome city. We have a place on Long Island—that’s more like a beach town. And I have relatives who live in a lake town in the Catskill Mountains. Pretty there, supercold in the winter. More snow than you’ve ever seen.”

  She eyed him over the rim of her glass. “I’ve never seen the snow.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I’m from the Sahara,” she reminded him.

  “Wow. Well, I’d love to show you around if you ever come to the States. Winter in the mountains, summer at the beach. You’d love it. I could show you how to surf.”

  “I’m not a very good swimmer. I haven’t been in the ocean since I was tiny.”

  “Don’t you like it?”

  “I don’t like swimming in my clothes. Once you hit puberty, boom, on go the veils. You can still get in the water. But have you ever tried swimming while wearing long pants, a long-sleeved shirt and a head scarf?”

  “Can’t say that I have. I wouldn’t make you wear all that stuff in the water.”

  She pressed a finger to her full lower lip, right where he wanted to start kissing her. “No, I don’t suppose you would.”

  He couldn’t stop staring at her. She was so damn pretty and cool. He was already half in love with her.

  14

  “Did you have a good time last night?”

  Mason’s heart dropped to his stomach. Crap. Had his dad caught him sneaking out already? “Um...” he mumbled around a mouthful of buttered tartine.

  “I thought the other students seemed like an interesting bunch.”

  Mason looked out the window to hide his relief. It would totally suck to be found out before he had a chance to hang out with Katia some more. “Right, Dad. Interesting.”

  “Hey, when I did my summer at the agency, I met guys I’m still friends with today.”

  He could imagine staying friends with that girl forever. “That’s cool.” He wolfed down the rest of the tartine and put his plate in the dishwasher. “I need to go pack some stuff for the weekend.”

  “You don’t need much. A few changes of clothes, your swim trunks. The cottage will have everything we need.”

  They set out after breakfast in Dad’s little Renault, a hatchback the color of a wine grape, with its radio dial set on a station playing incredibly lame French pop tunes. Like a pro, Dad maneuvered the car—a stick shift, Mason noticed with some trepidation—through the twisty, crowded streets of Paris.

  Dad lowered the volume of the radio. “I thought the girl was cute.”

  Mason’s leg started to jiggle. Maybe Dad had figured it out, after all. He decided to play dumb. “What?”

  “I’m just saying, you seemed to be getting along with that American girl.”

  “Lisa Dorfman. What a poseur.” They passed through the Bois de Boulogne, heading west. He watched the city go by out the window. The Paris everyone knew and loved—the shady boulevards, the monuments and rows of restaurants, the beautiful gardens—gave way to industrial blight, same as any other city. “She said her mother looked up everybody on the internet.”

  “I didn’t know you could do that.”

  “I guess you can if you’ve got too much time on your hands. The other kids seemed okay. So what’s the story on Omar’s daughter?” Mason ventured tentatively into the territory. He didn’t want to rat her out.

  “Omar was an ambulance driver in Algeria. Emigrated about ten years ago. He’s totally reliable, keeps to himself. I’ve never even met his wife, and Katia’s an only child. Other than that, I don’t know much.”

  Mason suppressed the urge to dig deeper. He didn’t want to seem too interested. But holy cow. He was. Katia was like two different people, one a traditional Muslim girl, swathed in veils and mystery, and the other a hot action figure, riding around on her scooter, showing off her abs.

  Soon enough, the industrial blight that ringed the city subsided. Beyond the périphér
ique, they were out in the countryside, and once again he felt as if he was in a postcard. There were rolling hills topped by windmills, vineyards with perfectly straight rows that seemed to go on forever and châteaus just sitting casually in the middle of the vineyards, common as a garden shed. Before long, the roads turned smaller, winding through villages with old stone cottages, goats and ducks in the yard, orchards with old gnarled trees, piles of hay and gardens bursting with vegetables and flowers.

  The roadside stands offered Calvados and buttery St. Michel biscuits. They stopped for lunch in a seaside resort town called Deauville, which had a boardwalk and a long, flat, sandy beach. There were boobs everywhere, because apparently French women didn’t bother with bikini tops.

  Mason just sat there at the boardwalk café and stared, and stared. “I’m never leaving here,” he said.

  His father laughed and ordered a bucket of moules with a side of frites, which came piping hot and salty in big paper cones. They each ordered a beer. It was cool that he could legally have a beer with his dad.

  “There are some things the French do better than everyone else.”

  “Yeah,” agreed Mason, staring at a topless woman, her oiled body gleaming in the summer sun.

  “I was talking about the moules frites, you little perv.”

  “Sure,” Mason said, bravely eating one of the fragrant steamed mussels.

  His dad took a sip of his beer. “I like hanging out with you when it’s just the two of us.”

  The statement made Mason feel a foot taller. “Same here.”

  “I wish we had time to do more of this.” He leaned back in his chair. “You’re going to love Cancale,” his dad said. “Great scenery, good swimming if you don’t mind climbing down a cliff to get to the beach.”

  Cancale. Mason had heard him mention it to the stranger on the phone. The afternoon drive took them past Mont St. Michel, a grand Gothic pile of history dating back to the ninth century. They didn’t stop at the historic site; Mason had been there before and it was swarming with tourists. He remembered it well because when they went there as a family, Ivy was massively cranky, and he and Adam had a great time being brats, running up and down the steep cobbled streets, begging their dad for pocket change so they could buy plastic swords and fight duels like the knights of yore.