Seven Letters from Paris (11 page)

The train whistle blew. I stepped into the passenger car. “This isn't a good-bye,” I said.

The train lurched forward. I watched Jean-Luc until he became a tiny speck blowing air kisses in the distance. Tracey and I looked at one another and said the same thing: “Maybe we should have stayed.”

But we didn't. We stuck to the plan.

As the train rolled along, insecurities chugged into my head. Jean-Luc was too perfect, too smart. He was seven years older, ready for a relationship. I was too young. The timing was wrong. Like a skilled surgeon, Jean-Luc had meticulously opened up my heart. If I didn't want to get hurt, it was up to me to close it again. We hadn't even reached our next destination, and my good-bye had already turned into the more permanent
adieu
.

Our European journey continued. Tracey and I made it to the South of France, visiting the beaches of Nice, Monaco, and Cannes. Then it was on to Geneva, Florence, and Greece, where I had too many shots of ouzo and too many plates broken on my head (literally). But no matter how hard I'd tried to convince myself Jean-Luc was wrong for me, it didn't work. I returned to my studies at Syracuse University to find six of Jean-Luc's letters awaiting me. I tried writing him back, but my words came out wrong, sounded stupid, could never match the passion found in his.

By the time the seventh letter arrived, guilt had rendered me numb. Instead of listening to my heart and writing Jean-Luc back, I tucked his letters into a blue plastic folder and got back to college life.

I wouldn't think about Jean-Luc again for many years.

Now, after a two-decade hiatus, I was actually going to see him again.

Letter Four

Paris, August 6, 1989

Despite the two glasses of red wine I'd drunk with the hopes of knocking myself out, sleep eluded me. Over the loudspeaker, the captain's voice lilted with a French accent, reminding me I was on a plane, getting ready to spend ten days and nine nights with a man I had spent only twenty-four hours with, twenty long years ago. So many things could go wrong. Then again, so many things could go right.

When I was twenty-four, a guy I was dating took me to Hawaii. I wasn't sure how I felt about him. He was kind of uptight, didn't quite “get” my sense of humor, but I was like, why not? Maybe we'll connect. Plus, it was cold in Chicago. So I went with him, expecting paradise and a little romance. What I got was my idea of hell—tropical rainstorms, a cat-sized rat lurking around on one of the rafters in our room, and a guy I couldn't stand to spend more than two seconds with. Thanks to the hotel's lending library, I must have read thirty or so crappy books over five torturous days. Finally, it was time for us to part ways. When he finally dropped me off at the airport, I bolted out of the rental car, never once looking back.

I'd told Jean-Luc this story over the phone, and he'd laughed and urged me to pack books instead of clothes, just in case. I was beginning to wonder.

I slouched down in my cramped window seat, flicking through the movies. My heart nearly stopped when I saw one of the choices:
Je
l'aimais
, based on the novel by Anna Gavalda, which Jean-Luc had recommended I read. I laughed to myself, apparently out loud. The woman seated next to me shouldered closer to her husband. At that point, I didn't really care if she thought I was crazy.

Jean-Luc's recommendation of
Je
l'aimais
had been a small but mildly amusing disaster in our relationship. First, when I'd popped over to Amazon.com to read an excerpt, I'd read from the wrong book, that title being “
Je
voudrais
que
quelqu'un m'attende quelque part
,”
I
Wish
Someone
Were
Waiting
for
Me
Somewhere
, a collection of short stories. Even worse, I'd sent Jean-Luc some nonsensical email about how I loved Gavalda's style, how I couldn't wait to read what happened between the woman, a literary type, and the handsome stranger she randomly encountered on boulevard Saint-Germain, and how these types of encounters were called “meet-cutes” in the movie world. And then I screwed my head on straight.

No,
Je
l'aimais
wasn't about a random encounter between two strangers. It was about how a man, Pierre, comforted his daughter-in-law, Chloe, shortly after his son left her and their two young daughters for another woman. On that night, Pierre shared something that had haunted him for over twenty years—his secret love for a woman named Mathilde. With much remorse, he confessed to Chloe how he had chosen the safer route, how he was a man who dared not. Now his life was filled with regret for casting aside the only woman he'd ever truly loved.

As I watched the movie, tears dampened my eyes. I could have been Pierre.
Je
l'aimais
could have been me. I was reminded of why I was on that plane. I was following my heart. I was a woman who dared.

Adventuress or not, the moment the plane touched the ground, my nerves set on fire. I was there, in Paris. We were supposed to wait until we reached the gate to use portable electronic devices, but my French emergency phone found its way from my purse into my hand, and I turned it on. I was a rebel about to suffer a complete nervous breakdown, and I needed to speak with Jean-Luc to make sure he had made it to the airport okay.

I could barely focus from the lack of sleep, the tiny buttons on the phone blurring. I dialed Jean-Luc's number and it just rang and rang and rang, and then, for good measure, it rang one more time before going to voice mail. Clearly, I must have dialed wrong. But no, oh no, his sexy and sultry French accent teased me on the voice mail message.

“Hi,” I said. “It's me. I'm here. I just landed. Um, call me back…okay?”

Finally, the phone buzzed to life, vibrating in my hand. I stared at it with horror. Usually, I was quite tech savvy. Not today. The cramped coach seat closed in on me. What I wouldn't have given for an oxygen mask. In a total freak-out moment, I couldn't figure out which button to press, so I pushed them all, ultimately missing his call. Thankfully, Jean-Luc called again. That time I chose the right button.

“Sam? Sam? Are you there?” Worry filled his tone.

“Uh, uh, uh…”

“Sorry, honey. I see I missed your call.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I was parking the car.”

“Mmph.”

“Are you okay?”

No, but I finally managed to get a coherent thought out. “You're here at the airport.” It wasn't a question but a breathless, almost accusatory statement.

“Of course. Where else would I be?” He paused. “When you come out of customs, go left, not right.”

“Me-a-ow.” Wait. Did I just meow? I meant to say okay. My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth. “I'll thee you apter cuthoms. To da laft.”

“Are you, um, okay, Sam?”

Although his voice was filled with genuine concern, I couldn't help but think he probably wanted to bolt right out of there, probably worried he was about to meet up with the Elephant Man's speech-impaired twin sister. Before I screamed, “I am not an animal! I am a human being. I am a woman,” a thought relaxed me. His voice may have oozed with a quiet confidence, but he was probably a wreck too. He had to be just as nervous as I was.

“I'm fine,” I said. “Just a little tired.”

“Okay.” He didn't sound convinced. “I'm waiting for you. To the left,” he said before the line went dead.

The plane pulled into the gate.
Ding
. The seatbelt sign was turned off. Passengers stood up, but I didn't move. Quickly, I ran through the contingency plan in my head. If I wasn't attracted to Jean-Luc on a physical level, I was supposed to kiss him on both cheeks, to “
faire
la
bise
,” the typical European greeting. Of course, we had never discussed what I was supposed to do if I liked what I saw. Shake his hand? Kiss him on the mouth? Or was Jean-Luc supposed to lift me into his arms and twirl me around? Then again, what if he didn't like the way I looked? Would he just leave me standing there? Would he turn and run?

The August heat seeped into the cabin. My pants stuck to my thighs, my hair to the nape of my neck. I had to get to the bathroom stat—to change my clothes, brush my hair, my teeth. The couple next to me finally pushed forward. I was barely able to get out of my seat to stand—or rather, wobble—in the aisle. I attempted to grab my bag from the overhead bin. Before it fell onto my head, a man caught it. I mumbled out a thank-you. Impatient passengers pushed this blond zombie down the tight aisle.

My ten-minute makeover would have to wait though; there was the matter of having to pass through airport security first—the police, not to be confused with customs. Even when they smiled, there was something ominous about their demeanor, something that said no matter who you were, no matter where you were, if you hadn't committed a crime and been busted for it yet, there was still time. I stood rigid in line. The stale scent of body odor—not mine, I hoped—permeated my nostrils, making me feel just a tad bit queasy. A uniformed officer sitting behind a plexiglass kiosk called me forward.

“Bonjour,” I said with what I thought was a smile.

“Passport, please.” The guy lifted a brow. I handed over my passport and nervously watched him scrutinize every page. His dark eyes locked onto mine, forcing me to meet his gaze. I wanted to tell him the only thing dangerous about me was my breath, but I didn't. Humor and
la
police
just don't mix.

A woman wearing a magnificent headscarf with swirls of dark purples and browns was being grilled one kiosk over. An infant clung to her chest. The moment the guard stamped her passport, her head lifted higher. Everyone has a story. I wondered what hers was.

I wondered where mine was going.

“Madame?” My interrogator interrupted my thoughts. “And your business in Paris, Madame?”

“I'm not here on business. I'm here for pleasure.”
Pleasure
.

Satisfied with my response, the guard scanned my passport, stamped it, and handed it back with a frown. “
Bienvenue
en
France. Bon séjour
.”

I raced to the ladies' room. In a smart move, I'd brought a poly/lycra blend dress, not one wrinkle on it. It was a white midsleeve number with a navy baroque pattern and a couple of sparkles, cute and curve fitting. Sexy but not over the top, the hem rested about three inches above the top of my knee. Just enough leg. I scrambled out of my T-shirt and yoga pants, wiped my body off with a baby wipe, put on deodorant, and threw the clean frock on. I pulled my white wedge cork heels out of the bag and slipped them onto my feet. Sunglasses to hide my sleep-deprived eyes. There, I almost felt human again. For a moment, I debated if it would be possible to wash my hair in the sink.

Before I'd left, I'd tried to convince Jean-Luc to pick me up at some hotel near the airport, where rooms are rented by the hour. Given my situation, I'd wanted to look my absolute best, maybe take a shower. Always a gentleman, he'd agreed to my crazy plan. Then I reconsidered. First, I would have had to take a bus a half an hour away, and with my French, I could have ended up in Timbuktu. And second, because this bears repeating, it was a hotel where they rented rooms by the hour.

My hair, I decided, had weathered the journey fine—not as greasy as I had anticipated it would be after nearly twenty-four hours of traveling. I smoothed it out with a brush. I touched up my lipstick, checked myself out one last time. Considering I hadn't slept, and even though I felt like hell warmed over, I didn't look nearly as bad as I'd thought I would. Tired passengers limped by as I made my way to baggage claim.

Forty-five minutes passed and the bags still hadn't made their appearance on the conveyer belt. Too many languages floated in the air. I didn't understand a thing, and my head felt as if it could explode. I was not looking forward to bending over in a dress to pick up a fifty-pound bag. I was wearing a thong. I was getting angry, impatient, and paranoid. A ringtone startled me. I was so distracted I barely noticed that it was the phone I'd been gripping like a lifeline in my hand. “Hello.”

“Honey, did you get lost?”

“No, the bags haven't come out yet. I'm sorry. There's nothing I can do to speed things up—” As if it was cued, the conveyor belt churned to life.

Jean-Luc breathed out a sigh of relief. “I'll see you soon. I can't wait.”

Sooner turned out to be later. My bag was the last one out.

A sea of saris, bright blues and greens glistening with silver paillettes, billowed around in the hot breeze. There must have been about thirty people milling about, blocking my view, and speaking in a foreign tongue. It wasn't French and I wondered if I had made a mistake, if I had actually arrived in, oh, I didn't know, India. Finally, the crowd parted and I saw Jean-Luc standing amid the cocoa-colored bodies. I sucked in my breath. Wearing a blue and white striped shirt and jeans, he was undeniably French. He was also hard to miss, really handsome—much better in person than in pictures.

His beautiful bow-shaped lips curved into a smile, warm and sexy, offset by charming dimples. He might not have had a full head of hair, but he worked this look well. His nose was imperfect, a little crooked, but this only added to his charm. And I loved the cleft in his chin, the square shape of his masculine jawline, his perfectly sized ears.

My sister, who had demanded I forward her the pictures Jean-Luc had sent, called the triangle of hair under his bottom lip a “flavor saver,” which was a pretty disgusting term, but I thought his soul patch was damn sexy, especially when combined with the well-manicured sideburns. I walked closer toward Jean-Luc and his smile widened, making him even sexier. My heart jackhammered against my ribs.

My pace quickened. I was one foot in front of Jean-Luc when my body lurched forward. Before I fell, he took me into his arms, strong and muscular. We gazed into each other's eyes, his soft caramel with hints of green, dreamy. Needing to end any kind of awkwardness right away, I went for it and planted a big kiss on his lips. It was an instantaneous attraction, a chemical reaction.

He hugged me tighter. “Now that I've found you, I don't want to let you go, not again.”

“Correction,” I said. “I found you.”

“Honey, oh honey, love isn't a competition.”