One Paris Summer (Blink) Read online

  “I’ve missed you, Sophie.” He clung to me, whispering in my ear as he smoothed the hair on the back of my head. “I’m so sorry.”

  I could barely hear him through my sobs. He pulled me away from the crowd, still holding me close, and led me over to Eric and the black-haired woman. I cried for nearly a minute before I settled down, now humiliated because everyone was staring at me . . . and because I had shown my father more emotion than he deserved.

  Eric stood to the side, grimacing with irritation. I’d probably embarrassed him for life, but I didn’t miss the concerned lines around his mouth. When one of us was in trouble, we had the other’s back.

  The black-haired woman held a tissue in her hand, but I could tell she wasn’t sure if she should offer it.

  Eric took the tissue from her and held it out to me, searching my eyes for confirmation that I wasn’t about to fall into additional pieces. God forbid I should cause any more of a scene at Charles De Gaulle airport. He already had enough fodder for his “What I Did over Summer Vacation” essay without his irrational sister adding any more drama.

  I snatched the tissue from his hand and swiped at my face, hoping I hadn’t smeared mascara everywhere.

  Dad stood awkwardly at my side, as though unsure how to proceed. The woman gave him a pointed look, then her eyes darted to me and back to him.

  He got the not-so-subtle cue and cleared his throat. “Sophie, Eric, I’d like you to meet my fiancée, Eva Mercier.”

  Eric stared at her for a moment, then blushed and held out his hand. “Bonjour, Madame Mercier. Enchanté. Merci pour m’accueillir en ta maison.”

  Traitor.

  Her eyes widened in surprise as she smiled and shook his hand, breaking into a musical burst of French.

  Eric laughed and answered in her language, stumbling over several words, but she chuckled, and then said in English, “Your French is quite good.”

  “Thanks. I’m hoping this summer will help me get an A in my AP French class next year.”

  “AP French?” Dad asked, clearly impressed.

  Eva cleared her throat, a delicate sound, but it stopped my father in his tracks. A warm smile lit up her face. “I’d like to say hello to Sophie. We don’t want her to feel left out.”

  Dad’s face reddened, and he offered me an apologetic smile. “You’re right. This is my beautiful Sophie.”

  I bristled. My father used to call me my beautiful Sophie all the time. He had no right to lay claim to me now. He’d relinquished that right the day he left.

  Eva took a step toward me, and to my surprise she wrapped her arms around my shoulders and pulled me close. She gave me a tight squeeze and then leaned back, still holding my upper arms. “Sophie.” My name sounded sophisticated in her accent. “You’re just as lovely as your father said.”

  My tongue lay in the bottom of my mouth like a slug.

  She kissed both of my cheeks and then dropped her hold. “I’m so happy you’re here and so grateful to spend the summer with you.”

  “Thank you.” I knew I should offer more—tell her I was excited to be here or I couldn’t wait to get to know her, but I couldn’t summon the energy to lie.

  Eva seemed undeterred by my lack of enthusiasm. “Are you two hungry? Thirsty? You must be exhausted.”

  Eric glanced to me and then back at Eva before taking over as the Brooks siblings’ spokesman. “We’re fine. I don’t know how much Sophie slept, but I had a long nap on the plane, so I’m good.”

  Eva gave us a motherly smile, full of tenderness, and something prickled in my heart. I wanted to hate this woman who was stealing my father from me. She was supposed to be the wicked stepmother from fairy tales. Of course, Dad hadn’t married her yet, so maybe the welcoming act was just that—an act. She didn’t want to give him a reason to back out of the wedding.

  But even I doubted that possibility. Something about her seemed genuine.

  “Why don’t we head back to the apartment,” she said in flawless English. “Your father and I have the morning off, so we’ll get some lunch with you before we head off”—she paused, then added—“to work.”

  He was going to work? He hadn’t seen us for nearly a year, and he was leaving us already?

  He must have read my thoughts, because he grimaced as he took the handle of one of my suitcases. “I don’t have enough vacation time built up yet, and we’re in a critical phase of the restoration of one the gargoyles on the south side of the church. I just need to drop by for a few hours and then I’ll be home.”

  Home? Home was four thousand miles away.

  But if he sensed that sentiment, he ignored it. He and Eric led the way to the parking garage—both of them tugging a suitcase. I trailed behind with Eva. She was probably worried I would have another mental breakdown and try to run away.

  “May I take your suitcase, Sophie?” she asked sweetly, giving me her full attention.

  My grip tightened. “No thanks. I’ve got it.”

  I knew I was being a brat—but my entire life was in utter chaos, and the only thing I had control over was the stupid suitcase my mother had lent me for the trip. I hated the ugly brown-and-green print, which made my attachment to it even stranger, but it contained half of the personal belongings I’d packed for the next eight weeks.

  As we walked into the parking garage, my father broke into a mini-lecture about the best way to overcome jet lag. He stopped at the back of a black sedan that was sleek and shiny and totally unlike anything my father had ever driven. He and Eric wrestled the luggage into the trunk. After he closed the lid, he seemed to notice my confusion. “It’s Eva’s brother’s car. We don’t need a car in the city.”

  My eyebrows lifted in surprise. He’d mentioned that he took the Metro to work, but it had never occurred to me that he didn’t also have a car.

  My father opened the back passenger door and ushered me in. I glanced up at him, but he was looking over the top of the car at Eva. I immediately slid into the backseat, smashing up against the lone suitcase that didn’t fit in the trunk. My brother got in next to me and shut the door.

  A few minutes later, Eva guided the car out of the parking garage and into the gray morning, all of us mired in silence. Eva was the first to come to her senses, and she started to ply us with questions about our flight, our schoolwork, and our friends. Our lives. Eric, the traitor, gave her detailed answers and added information in response to Dad’s follow-up questions. He seemed suddenly accepting of our incarceration. My answers were short and concise, and despite how it probably looked, I was trying to be as polite as possible. It was hard being civil when my father kept staring at the woman he was marrying the next day like he couldn’t wait for his wedding night. It made me want to barf. Once I got the nausea part under control, tears began to burn my eyes again.

  One year ago, my father would have been sitting at our kitchen table, eating the scrambled eggs and bacon I’d made for him before he went to work. One year ago, I would have been laughing at his goofy jokes at the dinner table. One year ago, he brought me to Cold Stone because he knew Jenna and I were fighting over a boy we both liked. As we sat across from each other, enjoying our ice cream, he promised me he would always be there when I had a broken heart.

  Liar.

  And now he was staring at this woman—this stranger—and the look he gave her told me she was now his everything.

  He’d replaced his family. He’d replaced me.

  I blinked and forced myself to get control. Grow up, Eric had said. He was right. Parents got divorced and remarried all the time. And I got that. I did. But why did my dad have to leave me behind in the process? Why was it an all-or-nothing deal?

  Eva drove down the Parisian highway, and I studied my surroundings, my heart growing heavier with each mile. The sky had turned a dark gray, making the clouds look heavy. The concrete buildings lining the road were gray too. Everything was dreary and depressing. Back home, I would fall into a deep funk when we had more than two days of cloud
s and rain. I needed sunshine and blue skies.

  When I was little, my third-grade Sunday school teacher told us hell was full of fire and brimstone. I had no idea what brimstone was at the time, but I knew she couldn’t be right. I raised my hand, and when she called on me, I said that if hell was a land of punishment, I didn’t think it would be hot and full of fire. It would be a world without color and music. Without dancing and laughing. Without sunshine and flowers. My teacher, an elderly woman, chuckled and rubbed my head, announcing that I had an overactive imagination. But when I explained my theory to my father later that night, he pondered it for several seconds before a warm smile lit up his face.

  “You know, Sophie, I dare say you’re right,” said the man who found happiness restoring the beauty of the past.

  Now, as I opened my eyes and found him looking over his shoulder, staring at me with profound sadness in his eyes, I knew he was probably the one person who truly understood me.

  Somehow that only made it worse.

  CHAPTER Three

  “HERE IT IS,” Dad said as Eva pushed open the heavy wooden door to her apartment. “Home sweet home.”

  I didn’t respond, not that I could respond after carrying my fifty-pound suitcase up three flights of stairs. Leaning against the handle, I sucked in deep breaths.

  “Sophie,” Dad said, shoving my other suitcase through the door as he stayed on the landing, “I told you I would get it.”

  While part of me had wanted to jump at the offer, another—louder—part had wanted to prove to him I didn’t need him anymore.

  Eva grabbed my suitcase and rolled it into the apartment. I followed her inside, Dad and Eric close behind.

  I expected to walk into a living room, but instead we were in a long hallway with white walls, lots of molding, and multiple sets of doors. The walls were at least nine feet tall with more heavy white molding on the ceiling. The wood parquet floor looked freshly polished, but it was the purple upholstered bench against one wall that caught my eye. The deep plum velvet was framed by scrolling, painted white wood.

  It was totally something I would have picked out.

  But I didn’t have time to dwell on it. Eva pushed open the second set of tall French doors on the right and I followed her into the living room. The walls were painted white like the hall. On the opposite side were two sets of large windows that overlooked the street below. On the wall to the left was a small fireplace with ornate, carved trim—all in white. A large mirror with a gold gilt frame hung over the mantel. Two red sofas faced each other with a rustic-looking coffee table between them. Two upholstered chairs in cream with red flowers flanked the fireplace. A small ornately carved desk was in the corner.

  I walked into the middle of the room, astounded. I had thought places like this only existed in magazines and on Pinterest.

  “Feel free to look around,” Eva said, smiling when she realized I was interested in the décor. “Consider this your home now.”

  Eric was checking out the flat screen TV in the corner and looked up at Dad. “An Xbox?”

  I rolled my eyes. Leave it to him to get excited over a game system.

  “Sophie, would you like to see your room?” Eva asked.

  “Yeah.”

  I followed her back into the hallway and she pointed to an open door on the opposite wall. “This is the kitchen. The washer and dryer are in there as well.”

  White cabinets lined two of the walls, and there was a small refrigerator, stove, and dishwasher. A table with three chairs was pushed against the wall.

  “There’s food in the cabinets and refrigerator, and there’s a small grocery store down the street,” Eva said. “Of course, you’re welcome to anything we have.”

  “Thank you,” I mumbled.

  She continued on down the hall and I followed her to another door on the left. “This is where Eric will sleep. And this is my room.” She gave me a quick glance as she pointed to the door on the right. “And your father’s, of course.”

  I sucked in a breath suddenly, remembering why I was here.

  She waved to the last door on the left. “And this is your room.”

  I walked through the now open door to find two twin beds, both covered with white duvets and teal throw pillows. A large window framed by silky, matching drapes overlooked the street. I walked over and looked out, gasping at the sight of the Eiffel Tower off to the left, not a half mile away, looming gracefully over the buildings around it.

  “You’ll share this room with Camille,” Eva said.

  My eyes widened, and I turned around to face her.

  “My daughter.”

  “Oh.” So I would be sharing a room for the next two months with someone I hadn’t even met and hardly knew anything about. Dad had told us little about Eva—let alone her daughter—over the last four months, but I’d refused to talk to him after the Paris call last week.

  “She’s a year older than you, seventeen.” She smiled softly and picked up a framed photo from a bedside table, glancing at it before turning it around to show me. “She’s at school taking her final exams. She’ll be home around six.”

  The girl in the photo looked a lot like Eva, and the smile on her face made her look just as sweet. Maybe sharing a room with her wouldn’t be so bad after all.

  Dad appeared in the doorway with my suitcases. He set them against the wall and stared at me for several seconds before he turned to Eva. “We need to hurry if we want to eat lunch.”

  She nodded and murmured something in French. He answered and gave her a bright smile that stabbed me in the heart. She edged past him into the hallway, but he hesitated, looking like he wanted to say something. Finally his mouth tilted up in a soft smile. “I’m glad you’re here, Sophie.”

  A lump filled my throat. I forced out, “So I’ll be here for your wedding?”

  His smile fell. “Look, Sophie, I know I haven’t handled things well . . .”

  I put a hand on my hip. “You think?”

  “Being hostile isn’t going to help.”

  “And what exactly is going to help? You ran off last August, and the only reason we’re seeing you now is because it’s suddenly convenient for you. You didn’t even come home for Christmas!”

  He cringed. “I wanted to.”

  “Don’t. Just don’t.” I tried to swallow my grief. “You might think you’ve fooled us, but it’s pretty obvious the only reason you invited us is to look good in front of your new family.”

  He took a step toward me. “It’s not like that, Sophie,” he said softly. “I promise.”

  “You promise,” I spat out in disgust. “You promised a lot of things, Dad. How many have you broken this past year?” Christmas was just the first on a long list.

  “Sophie.” His voice broke.

  I shook my head. “We better go or you’re going to be late going back to work. I’d hate to screw up your priorities.”

  He started to say something, but I brushed past him.

  Eric and Eva were waiting by the front door. The guilty look on Eva’s face told me she’d heard everything. And the way Eric refused to look me in the eye told me he’d heard too, and was embarrassed again, although I wasn’t sure why. I was only repeating everything he’d already said at home.

  As I walked toward them, something stopped me in my tracks. “Where’s the piano?”

  Dad was behind me and cleared his throat. “We haven’t had a chance to get it yet, Soph. We’ll get one in the next day or two. I promise.”

  I couldn’t take any more broken promises.

  We walked to a café down the street, tension thick between the four of us. The sky was even darker than before, and now it was sprinkling.

  Dad grabbed a table inside, and we all sat in silence for several awkward moments before Eva started talking again, first in English, then in French with Eric. My father added to the conversation every so often, but I kept silent, watching the passersby through the windows.

  After our food came, Ev
a switched back to English and filled us in on their work schedules. Eva worked at a bank, so her schedule was often the same as Dad’s. Today was the last day of classes for Camille, so she would play tour guide while the two of them were at work during the day.

  “The church wedding is tomorrow afternoon,” Eva said, taking a sip of her wine and watching me closely. “It’s a small ceremony. We’ll have photos taken, and then we’ll go to a restaurant to celebrate over dinner.”

  Neither Eric nor I said anything.

  “Did you bring something to wear?” Dad asked.

  I looked down at my open-face grilled ham and cheese sandwich—Eva had called it croque monsieur—trying to think of a snappy retort, but my sleep-deprived brain refused to cooperate.

  Eric gave me a strange look before turning back to Dad. “Mom bought us new clothes.”

  Dad picked at his salad, then lifted his head and studied my face for several seconds. “Sophie, I know you’re upset about the piano, but I’ve been thinking . . .” He shot a glance to Eva before turning back to face me. “Maybe this would be a good opportunity for you to focus on something else for a couple of months. You tend to lose yourself when you spend hours at the keyboard.” He stabbed lettuce onto his fork. “It might be a chance for you to reevaluate what you want to do with your life.”

  My mouth dropped open in shock. My father had always encouraged my music. Where was this coming from?

  Encouraged by my silence, he continued. “You’re young and in Paris. Camille and her friends are going to show you around.” He leaned closer. “Maybe you should take a break from piano. Relax.”

  Eric shot me a glare that said don’t do this here.

  I took a breath, then said in a firm voice, “You promised Mom I would have access to a piano. You told her you would get me one. That was part of the deal.”

  Eva patted my hand. “And we’ll get you one, Sophie.” She cast an irritated glance at my father, but her expression faded to tenderness when she turned back to me. “If your father promised, then we’ll make sure you get one.”